I would like to think that Orwell and I have a few things in common, but I can confidently say that our bookshop experiences are quite similar. Orwell worked for a few years in a secondhand bookshop, and he memorialized some of that experience in two works. One was an
My secondhand bookshop trades in ideas, knowledge, and wisdom, often providing access to wonderfully word-crafted works that may inspire hope and provide solace. Our trade can be as simple as entertainment and humour; a balm to the ravaged soul. We broker esoteric theories and the wondrously simple commonality of being
A few people worked in the bookshop with me. My first assistant was a university student who was studying psychology. Friendly, smart, upbeat, responsible, computer savvy… she was wonderful and of course didn’t last. Once she got her degree, off she went and good for her! A later employee
The bookshop generally closed later on Friday evenings, at 7:00 rather than 6:00 PM. In the summer it was still full daylight, but in winter it was completely dark outside by then. I don’t know why I stayed open so late. Perhaps I did so because some
I don’t remember her name, but I do remember her. Let’s call her ‘Susan’. A second-hand bookshop tends to attract unusual characters. Sometimes I felt like a bartender without alcohol involved. People seem to have the notion that a bookshop (particularly the small second-hand type) is a place
Years ago there was a regular customer at the bookshop. He came semi-monthly, sometimes weekly. For some reason I can only recall him visiting in the winter. He wore a long leather coat, similar to those worn by exotic and eerie characters in vampire movies, or like a Gestapo officer