of the four-hour journey is spent with Bach. We make appreciative sighs as the landscape rushes by until we venture up the driveway to a large farmhouse. Waiting to greet us is a self-described American aesthete and owner of one of the rare, complete sets of John James Audubon’s Birds of America . I break the news that I don’t have the confidence or contacts to handle his piece de resistance orhis facsimile reproduction of the Leonardo da Vinci notebooks and Codices. I offer to buy his First Edition of Chatwin’s In Patagonia but he is reluctant to accept less than £250 for it. We agree, however, to a price on the paperbacks; a one thousand strong collection of modern literature, in tip top condition, in which there is a fair sprinkling of cult titles and books with a high ‘novelty’ factor (always a big plus) like Dennis Cooper’s George Miles cycle.
Having come prepared, we soon begin the labour intensive process of packing the boxes. Overweight and in his fifties, Brian isn’t the fittest of individuals. He sweats heavily while helping me lug the boxes into the van.
‘You’re the muscle, eh?’ says the American who has emerged from the kitchen with coffee.
What I imagine to be a wry smile escapes my lips. Oxbridge graduate and former Head of English at Exeter College, Brian now organises poetry recitals in the shop when he isn’t leading a choir in the Cathedral of Beziers, a city to where he supposedly retired. An accomplished pianist, Brian is also something of an artist when it comes to performing lengthy monologues on a myriad of intellectual topics. The American is treated to one on rhythmic patterns in English and French classical music
‘Well, well. You’re the most intellectual muscle I’ve ever come across.’
We leave in a van which, with all its book ballast, now feels easier to handle as we begin the long drive back.
Moving to 44 Rue de l’Université, Montpellier, 1996
The opening of a sex shop next door in rue de Cheval Vert was not our prime reason for moving. Nor was it a reason to stay put. We had been looking for a bigger place.
The owners of a shop, selling new books at the top of the street we’ve moved to, feel threatened by our sudden presence, but we are ignoring their enmity. I won’t be turning down textbook orders but I’m not chasing the student market in spite of our new address. We’re attracted to a different concept, more of an ideal actually, one encompassing tea, cake and a good read. ‘BBC’, in moving from rue de Cheval Vert to rue l’Université, has opened an adjoining tea-room. These days every business refers to a pretentious mission statement. If we had one, ours would be based on the following paragraph from Carson McCullers’ The Ballad of the Sad Cafe.
‘But the spirit of a café is altogether different. Even the richest, greediest old rascal will behave himself, insulting no one in a proper café. And poor people look about them gratefully and pinch up the salt in a dainty and modest manner. For the atmosphere of a proper café implies these qualities: fellowship, the satisfaction of the belly, and a certain gaiety and grace of behaviour.’
We tempt shoppers with scones, melting moments and bara brith. But our business model is flawed. Many customers turn into friends and it’s difficult to refuse them a tea or a scone on the house.
All sorts of people walk into the shop with a multitude of motives other than wanting a good read. In six months, I encounter clowns, buskers, beggars, thieves, novelists (Adam Thorpe, Sam David), poets, pavement artists, aspirant suicides (I have to pretend that I no longer have a copy of the Handbook of Hanging ) and replica gun-toting junkies.
A tall Yorkshireman with an eyepatch, who is rumoured to be on the run, steps into shop on the look out ‘for a dirty old man’. He pauses for effect before adding: ‘Charles Bukowski’. I don’t have any because Bukowski is an author that flies off the shelves.
Having come prepared, we soon begin the labour intensive process of packing the boxes. Overweight and in his fifties, Brian isn’t the fittest of individuals. He sweats heavily while helping me lug the boxes into the van.
‘You’re the muscle, eh?’ says the American who has emerged from the kitchen with coffee.
What I imagine to be a wry smile escapes my lips. Oxbridge graduate and former Head of English at Exeter College, Brian now organises poetry recitals in the shop when he isn’t leading a choir in the Cathedral of Beziers, a city to where he supposedly retired. An accomplished pianist, Brian is also something of an artist when it comes to performing lengthy monologues on a myriad of intellectual topics. The American is treated to one on rhythmic patterns in English and French classical music
‘Well, well. You’re the most intellectual muscle I’ve ever come across.’
We leave in a van which, with all its book ballast, now feels easier to handle as we begin the long drive back.
Moving to 44 Rue de l’Université, Montpellier, 1996
The opening of a sex shop next door in rue de Cheval Vert was not our prime reason for moving. Nor was it a reason to stay put. We had been looking for a bigger place.
The owners of a shop, selling new books at the top of the street we’ve moved to, feel threatened by our sudden presence, but we are ignoring their enmity. I won’t be turning down textbook orders but I’m not chasing the student market in spite of our new address. We’re attracted to a different concept, more of an ideal actually, one encompassing tea, cake and a good read. ‘BBC’, in moving from rue de Cheval Vert to rue l’Université, has opened an adjoining tea-room. These days every business refers to a pretentious mission statement. If we had one, ours would be based on the following paragraph from Carson McCullers’ The Ballad of the Sad Cafe.
‘But the spirit of a café is altogether different. Even the richest, greediest old rascal will behave himself, insulting no one in a proper café. And poor people look about them gratefully and pinch up the salt in a dainty and modest manner. For the atmosphere of a proper café implies these qualities: fellowship, the satisfaction of the belly, and a certain gaiety and grace of behaviour.’
We tempt shoppers with scones, melting moments and bara brith. But our business model is flawed. Many customers turn into friends and it’s difficult to refuse them a tea or a scone on the house.
All sorts of people walk into the shop with a multitude of motives other than wanting a good read. In six months, I encounter clowns, buskers, beggars, thieves, novelists (Adam Thorpe, Sam David), poets, pavement artists, aspirant suicides (I have to pretend that I no longer have a copy of the Handbook of Hanging ) and replica gun-toting junkies.
A tall Yorkshireman with an eyepatch, who is rumoured to be on the run, steps into shop on the look out ‘for a dirty old man’. He pauses for effect before adding: ‘Charles Bukowski’. I don’t have any because Bukowski is an author that flies off the shelves.
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