And Company
The bookstore isn’t just a bookstore, though it appears that way on the outside. No, the bookstore is a conglomeration of memories and stories, of people and experiences and tales that no one will ever see, and at this moment, all I want to do is be a part of it.
The exterior of this shop is magical in its appearance, a bright green that mimics the small booksellers that dot the Seine like flower boxes. The words “Shakespeare and Company” stand in a proud black script against a screaming yellow sign, and there’s carts of books perched out front to entice wandering passersby. Of course, the store needs little introduction, and few people walk by without the purpose of going in. No, the bookstore sits perfectly positioned in the Latin Quarter (one of the more creative and unique arrondissements in Paris, if you want to take my word for it) across the river from the island that hosts Notre Dame. My favorite detail, however, is the large birch tree out front, and when the sun hits it just right it casts speckled shadows across the facade of the building, doting it in shade colored sequins.
You are not allowed to take pictures inside Shakespere and Company, it’s one of their few rules posted on the signage out front. Every moment must be committed to memory, or it falls into danger of being forgotten forever. When my dad and I poke around inside, I look at the tables piled high with stacks of books haphazardly organized by genre or author, the warm wooden bookcases that seem to stretch up into the ceiling, and the small chandeliers that bask everything inside in a warm yellow glow. The floors come in an array of woodtones and designs, and my dad leafs through a few well worn travel guides while I search for a copy of Le Petit Prince. I’m also searching for the hidden homes of the Tumbleweeds, tucked in and around the shelves of the store.
When Sylvia Beach first created the bookshop in 1921, and it was recreated in 1952, the concept of the Tumbleweeds was new. Any visiting writer could write to the proprietor of the shop and ask for housing. In exchange, they would read a book a day, work a few hours at the shop, and contribute a one page autobiography at the completion of their stay. Ultra talented writers got use of the furnished apartment above the shop, while the younger writers, those seeking the experience of the Lost Generation and the Boheme, slept in bunk beds hidden behind curtains and under shelves, up ladders and tucked in corners. It contributes to the charm of the place, the idea that this isn’t just a bookshop, it’s a home. Ideologically and literally, this is a place that welcomes all. Writers and readers and tourists and wanderers, all are welcome beneath the shade and flickering light of the walls. There’s a message scrawled on one wall in a backroom, a white wall with black lettering that reads, “Be not inhospitable to strangers, lest they be angels in disguise.”
