Gibert-Joseph, on the other hand, is a large store and is
too large to look anything like the little libraries throughout Paris. I’d seen the stores along St.-Michel, some
for books, some for DVDs, some for music, and one a papeterie—where one buys
paper and the necessary tools for writing—others for school books, some for
selling and some for buying, but because there were so many, I didn’t expect
the store he pulled me into to be as large as it was. Seven floors; but that didn’t keep it from
being packed with books.
In our conversation in Luxembourg, lasting a little over an
hour, we had talked about literature mostly, for he had read everything. Like most of the people who I like, and who
like me, they all read more often than I do.
I’ve found through them that I’m not much of a reader. He spoke to me about American writers,
English writers, and French writers, and he wanted to know what I’d read, and
what I thought about it. I told him I’d
read Zola’s L’Assemoir, which is so
depressing its impossible to forget you’ve read it, and I’d read Marguerite de
Navarre’s Heptameron, Chronicles by Jean Froissart—the
original historian of the Hundred Years’ War, and La Cité des Dames by Christine Pizan. We talked a long time about some of these,
but he had not read all of them. He also
spoke to me about some of the American writers he’d read—the one I remember now
was Virginia Woolf. He’d read To the Lighthouse in English. I was impressed, to say the least.
Have you ever read Woolf’s To the Lighthouse? He said
it was beautiful writing, but that he was lost on some of it. I told him it was stream of consciousness and
he asked what this meant. So I
explained, using her book as an example.
It’s when she writes everything that comes into her head, as it comes
into her head, exactly the way she thinks it—rather than filtering the thoughts
through organizations of structure like accepted sentence syntax and
punctuation. It was her feminist
response to male structure. He found the
term ‘stream of consciousness’ most interesting.
And after we talked about literature for a while, and he
shared with me that his favorite writer was Marcel Proust—and had I read
anything of his? I said I hadn’t, but
for those of you who know me, this shouldn’t surprise you, since I never seem
to have read what people ask me if I’ve read—and he’d seen the English cover,
and are all English covers that way?
I stopped
him. « Qu’est-ce que veux-tu dire? » He responded again, “They
are ugly.” “What are?” “English book covers!” And that’s what it was, that got him so
riled, we had to leave the garden and go into several bookshops so he could
prove his point. He went the
Gibert-Joseph showing me the nice, expensive French editions of books which
were bound in cloth, and which he admitted were too expensive for a typical purchase,
and then he went to the French translations of English books, which covers were
clean and simple. They usually had a
picture on the front, with a white bar at the top with the book title, and a
white bar at the bottom with the author’s name.
They all looked very much like Penguin’s Classics Series--except white, instead of black.
I had realized this before while walking by the libraries
that the books all seemed to be white, and difficult to tell apart. It occurred to me that the must be technical
books of some kind, since some libraries sell merely les livres médicaux
(Medical), or livres anciens et rare (Ancient and Rare), livres jeunesse (for
Children). I’d also seen people in the
garden reading books, all of which seemed to have the same cover, and took them
all for classics. In fact, I’m sure I
have somewhere in my notes: “The French all seem to be reading classics. Either they’re all very cultured, or they’re
catching up on the reading they should have done as young-adults.” It turns out, and I learned through this tour
of Gibert-Joseph that any French literature had these book covers, and it had
nothing to do with them being medical books, or law books. He proceeded show me all sorts of French
books, all of which looked very similar.
Then, he spent a long time trying to find the
English-language books, and when he did, he was proud of himself. He touched the flashy book covers and
confirmed, “See? Ugly.” I admit, I kind of laughed. I liked the French literature book
covers. They were simple and clean, the
way I often like my book covers, and far be it from me to purchase a book with an
ugly book cover—no seriously, I won’t—but as always, in comparisons, you
realize the mentality of your own culture.
I proceeded to explain that we had book covers like the
French ones, too, and pulled out a few of the classics off the bookshelves to
show him the covers which looked similar to his beloved French book
covers. Then I told him that we had
artistic covers for best-sellers, classics, historical-fictions or
non-fictions, and the like. I pulled out
a few books for some other covers, things written by Jack Kerouac or John
Steinbeck which often require a book cover more artistic than the ‘classics.’ Then, of course, there were the books whose
covers intended to catch your attention so you’d see them and pick them up while
waiting in line, or while passing the bookshop into work. This apparently was not the scenario of his
book-buying experiences.
I realize, in retrospection that books have to be this way
now. At least in the United States, book
stores are going out of business rapidly, thanks to the likes of ‘digital’
books. And for those of us who are still
holding on to our desire to turn physical pages, amazon will always save us a
trip out of the house. Except for the
even smaller population of persons who regularly go into bookshops, wander the
books, and purchase one or two to keep the whole thing going a little longer—my
father is one such person—bookstores are becoming unnecessary.
Since coming to Paris, I have come to appreciate bookshops a
little more. There’s an art to the
proper browsing of books in a bookshop which I observed my father do my whole
life, but never tried or put into practice until I came to Paris. To properly browse a bookshop and then make a
purchase, one firstly needs to be somewhat knowledgeable either about books or
authors and secondly cannot be searching for any book in particular or else you
will never find it. One must scan the
book titles and authors until something strikes a chord, and then one must pull
the book off the bookshelf, page through it, and decide if it’s something one
wants to buy. Sometimes walking around
the bookshop while carrying said book helps make a decision about the purchase.
The problem with five easy steps to perfect browsing is that
most Americans are rather impulsive buyers when it comes to their entertainment,
and also, most working Americans don’t believe they have the time to meander
through a bookshop. If we need a cook
book we go to the cooking section and find one we like. If we’ve read a review about a good book,
then we go to the bestseller stands and buy it.
But we rarely browse, we rarely have an infinite bank of knowledge about
authors and we rarely buy a book we’ve never heard of or read about. And that’s why we need catchy/flashy book
covers. If we’re in line, and something catches
our eye, we’re more likely to read it and decided within seconds if it’s
interesting enough to spend time reading.
The French book covers would never do for a working-class American who
has so little time to spare.
Or else, that’s what we believe. Thanks to my French friend from Luxembourg
gardens, I now know this about French culture: the French don’t think that way—that
they have little time to spare. I mean, I’m
sure they do think they don’t have enough time, but it doesn’t keep them from
taking their time. They browse. They browse everything. I found out
early on that if I stood in front of the cheeses section of the grocery store
for five minutes, no one would find that strange. The old French woman next to me was doing the
same thing. Browsing the cheeses. Furthermore, Paris is an entire city of shop
windows and if something catches your eye, it’s not so strange to stop and
look. Shoes. Clothing. Jewelry. Food.—and
books. There are stalls outside of
bookshops for browsing, something you rarely see in a big city in the United
States. And to me, that’s a significant
cultural difference. Browsing. Who knew?
*13/7/12 Update: My neighbor gave me this gorgeous french phrase used to express 'window shopping': faire du lèche-vitrines. Literally it means to lick the showcases (or shop windows).
*13/7/12 Update: My neighbor gave me this gorgeous french phrase used to express 'window shopping': faire du lèche-vitrines. Literally it means to lick the showcases (or shop windows).
