My first bookshop love affair

I first came across Arthur Probsthain, Oriental & African bookseller, in 1986. I was in London to visit the British Museum for the first time, and I was sixteen years old. It was a rainy day - somehow London always seems more Londony when it rains - and my heart gave a little flutter when I first spotted the bookshop's hanging sign. I was obsessed with Japanese prints, but no local bookstores stocked books on the subject, and it was back before the Internet took hold of us and provided the opportunity to buy the rarest of books from far-off places at the click of a mouse button. A small shop, with two rooms filled with dusty second-hand and new tomes, I stayed in there for what seemed like an age. And although I wasn't made of money, being a student at the time, I spent all of £20... which was two weeks' allowance. I couldn't wait to go back. And I did so, countless times.


In the winter of 1988, I sat in Jack Hillier's study and wrote down a list of reference books as he suggested appropriate titles to aid in my research. One book went to the top of my list... a Dictionary of Japanese (Sosho) Writing Forms, by Otome Daniels, published in 1942. About a month later, Ryoma and I headed into central London for the book hunt. The chances of finding the dictionary were slim. We were staying over by Holland Park, so we looked in every bookshop we encountered along the way as we headed closer and closer to the British Museum, including the shelves of the shops along Charing Cross Road. Finally, we arrived at Arthur Probsthain's. We searched the selection of dictionaries... nothing. Then we searched every shelf in both rooms, just in case a copy lived there but had been put back in the wrong place... still nothing. We searched the stacks of books that stood on the floor and table in front of the shelves, amongst volumes that looked as if they hadn't been disturbed for decades... still nothing. Then, just as I'd given up all hope of success, Ryoma began rummaging amongst a pile of books and knocked them over. They tumbled to the side of the nearby bookcase, and as Ryoma bent forward to pick them up, knocking a few more over in the process, he glanced behind one of the shelves of books...into the dark recesses where only spiders had ventured since before I was born, and there it was... covered in green dust. Yes, green! I blew at it, sending a cloud of the stuff up into the air and up Ryoma's nose. I may have eeped with joy a few (or ten) times. My dictionary... I was convinced it had been waiting there for me all along.

I'd been fond of the shop since I first came across it, on that rainy afternoon when I was killing time after looking at Japanese prints at the British Museum. But as my eyes fell upon that dusty dictionary... well, I fell in love with the place.

I loved the way the shop smelled, the way it looked, the sound of the creaky floorboards... everything about it... especially on rainy days, because book hunting is so much more fun when it's raining. There's something about the smell of old paper and wet raincoats mixing together. It's been refurbished since then, so the green dust has gone forever. It's very clean and organised now. I miss those old shelves, sagging under the weight of those old books. I miss the dust-filled air. And I think that I will always miss the possibility that I'll find a long-forgotten treasure, for £6.50, slightly green, most certainly foxed, but for me very desirable indeed.

I am experiencing sudden raptures

I was quite taken aback by myself today. Ever since my books first came out, I've been so busy working on other projects that I haven't really had much time to sit back and take in what's been going on around me. The books have had great reviews, and I've been very happy about that, in the few seconds before falling asleep when I had a quiet moment to think about something other than my next paragraph. The signings have gone incredibly well, and for the duration of the car ride home I've been able to enjoy that great sense of achievement that comes with flogging piles of books to my poor unsuspecting victims... erm, I mean 'readers'. Even during the only break we had this year, when Ryoma and I went to France and Belgium and my shoe exploded, as shoes do, I was too busy working to really experience the excitement that events unfolding around me should have inspired. Then today, rather suddenly, as I came to the end of a project and didn't leap headlong into another one, copies of 'The Wonderful Demise of Benjamin Arnold Guppy' were being arranged in the local Waterstone's bookstore window, and it hit me... my book is on sale every day of the week at my local bookstore! A huge wave of 'stick-out-chest' type pride washed over me and made my head buzz... or that might have been the huge bowl of cappuccino I knocked back two seconds previously.


Here we have the shop window, with my books in the corner of it. I can stand there and stare at that window any time I like. Well, when the shopping mall is open... other times may lead to incarceration. And it's my local store... oh the joy of it all. Kissing the window, I am told, is not encouraged... so I didn't.

Doom and gloom, go zoom to the moon!

Anyone who's read any of my previous blog posts knows that I am not a floaty, fluffy, 'it's all sunshine and moonbeams' kinda gal when it comes to this writing malarkey... I'm a realist. I'm all for realism. What I'm not a great fan of is scaremongering codswallop. So, the publishing industry's going through changes... has that never happened before? Book sales are down and, apparently, the end of the physical book is in sight... well, we're in the middle of an economic recession... money spent on social drinking is down, but who's going to suggest that beer's about to become extinct? There are less people reading and buying books than ever before! Really? Considering the fact that in early Victorian Britain a third of the population was illiterate, a further third was only semi-literate, and the working classes couldn't even afford to buy books, I find that very hard to believe. The silver screen was going to kill books dead, the TV screen was going to do the same thing... ebooks promised the same. When did it happen? I think I must have missed it, as I saw books in the bookstore at the weekend, and they were real... I touched one to make sure (ok, I admit it, I bought five).


When I do a book signing (selling full-price books in this climate where, according to the 'experts', only discounted books stand a chance of selling), I sit in a bookshop for hours, watching the people come and go, search the shelves and then trundle off with their bundles of books. I listen to them talk about their hunger for more books to read, their frustration that the current economic climate means that they have had to cut back on buying books for the time being, and their hopes that when things get better they can go back to buying as many books as they did before. There's no sign that books have lost favour; they just aren't as important to the survival of mankind as food is, so when a choice has to be made, people buy that instead. I know, I know, who could have predicted that would happen?

Whilst Philip Roth is predicting that interest in fiction will dwindle to a 'cultic' minority enthusiasm within 25 years, I am going to predict only one thing... that in 25 years, people will be predicting that interest in fiction will dwindle to a 'cultic' minority enthusiasm within 25 years. So, doom and gloom can go fly to the moon. It's all happened before and, for anyone who knows the first thing about history, it was actually worse back then. If the end really is nigh, as it has been countless times since time began, I would like to be told when 'nigh' is going to be... I'm sick of waiting and I want to make sure I'm wearing clean undies for the big event.

Great expectations

"Are your books doing as well as you hoped they would?" I have been asked this question so many times, and I haven't once been able to answer it. I have no answer. In order for my books to do as well as I hoped, I'd have had to hope in the first place. I was told by a very dear friend, when I was sixteen years old, that there's no money to be made in writing about art. He'd been doing it for years, and was very well respected in the field... he knew what he was talking about. I listened to him, accepted that I would make no money, and continued regardless. Much later, another writer friend told me that I'd have more chance of being struck by lightning than becoming recognised for my great genius. I accepted that I would be broke and unknown, and continued along my chosen path all the same. Later still, I was told to expect poor reviews... to take them on the chin, as nobody escapes them. I was prepared to be broke, unknown, and disliked by those who did manage to discover my existence. I was also told to avoid book signings, as they are unproductive and painfully boring, and that book buyers are prone to staring, pointing and telling you what they really think of you, to your face, so direct contact should be avoided if at all possible. I anticipated being broke, unknown, disliked by those who did uncover my existence, and eventually heckled by Saturday shoppers... and still I persisted.

I have people come up to me at signings and say, with that particular dreamy look in their eyes, "I want to be a writer". Surprisingly (well, I think it is) they go on to talk of celebrity and fortune. If only they had the time, they'd write that bestseller and retire to a condo on the beach. I try to bring them down to earth gently, by informing them that I am nowhere close to building a condo on the beach (which is just as well really... I live in Weston-super-Mare, it would sink), and that most books fade into obscurity three months after they're published. I dash their hopes, and they hate me for it. "But this shouldn't stop you from writing," I say, as they trundle off to the cookery section to plot my assassination.

In truth, I have no great desire for fame and fortune. I have no objection to money, so if it throws itself at me I won't beat it off with a stick. But I am not the best candidate for fame... being too fond of speaking my mind and using the words "bugger" and "backside" in public. Infamy might be more up my street, and I think I may have achieved that in certain quarters already. I have been very pleasantly surprised by the positive response my books have received, by sales figures, and by the fact that I haven't, as yet, been accosted by book buyers wielding pitchforks (though I do realise that this might be because of the rarity of pitchforks in modern shopping malls).

I suggested to an aspiring writer (who was really an aspiring celebrity) that we should take one writer and one rock... monitor the progress of the writer as he attempts to get published and the rock as it attempts to turn itself into a squirrel... and take bets on which will succeed first. He huffed at me and thought me a swear word with knobs on. Writing a book is hard work. Marketing a book is hard work. Everything about this writing malarkey is hard work. Becoming a number one bestseller and household name is as much about luck as it is about talent. In fact, the former isn't reliant on the latter.

It's got to be about the writing. The sheer desire to write, regardless of the outcome. Everything else is uncertain and likely to drive you slowly around the bend.

I still think of Cedric

On the subject of food again, I don't often talk about the fact that I'm a vegetarian. When the subject does come up, I'm usually asked how I came to be a veggie, and my answer is always the same... 'I once murdered a chicken.'

The roots of my vegetarianism lie in the year 1972, in a village in southern Italy. I am half Italian (Calabrese to be exact), and my grandmother had a farm (like Old MacDonald). On that farm she had some goats... and chickens. She also had a granddaughter who, at the age of three, thought that chickens were cute and cuddly and handy during a game of cricket when no ball was available. Not realising my own strength, or that the heads of chickens are not made from reinforced concrete, I took a length of wood and swiped my new feathered friend (Cedric was her name) across the noggin with all my might. The sound of the wood making contact with that chicken's skull was followed by a cry from my grandmother. That cry was followed by half an hour of plucking, and the eventual appearance of that chicken on a large ceramic platter as dinner was served later that evening.

The connection was quickly made, in my young mind, between my activities with a makeshift bat that afternoon and the demise and subsequent consumption (not by me) of Cedric later in the day. The events of that day formed the basis for numerous storytelling sessions by various family members who thought me rather cute. I thought me rather murderous (and still do) and made a vow never to harm another living creature.

I was the first vegetarian in my family, as far as I know. Thankfully, my mother, being prepared for my unusual eating habits by the fact that I had refused milk from the moment I was born and had always been a difficult bugger to feed, had learned to be rather creative in the kitchen. This was not the case with my extended family in Britain, who believed that vegetarians could exist on a diet of nothing but cheese and pickle sandwiches.

But anyway, there you have it... how I came to be a veggie. I still think of Cedric... very often in fact. I have much to thank her for... the rest of chicken-kind is safe from me. I do wonder, however, how much consolation that would provide.

Food doesn't kill me anymore!

The illness that resulted in my brush with death in 2007, being somewhat mysterious (as I couldn't possibly fall prey to a boring and predictable one), resulted in me developing various unusual food allergies, cutting down the number of foods I was able to eat without breaking out or choking to death to about three. It's amazing just how boring, not to mention frustrating, mealtimes can become when you are faced with the same few meals day after day after day. I even had to avoid eating chocolate... the worst nightmare of most ladies. And imagine a life without gruyere and parmesan... goat's cheese!

Over time, these allergies have disappeared... chocolate, coffee, tea, curry, and copious amounts of cheese can be consumed without worry, but I doubt that the effects of having had to give up so many of my favourite things will ever leave me. Never again will I take for granted the simple pleasure to be had from drinking a hot cup of coffee, or nibbling on a chunk of cheese. And these babies below... little bite-sized pieces of sheer heaven... well, I photographed them and then sat looking at them with deep admiration for an entire evening before finally popping one into my mouth (an Amarena cherry suspended in Amaretto buttercream - second from the right on the bottom row... what bliss!). Hotel Chocolat... How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.


Yesterday evening, Ryoma and I went shopping and stopped off at Costa. When my large cappuccino arrived, having only been able to partake for the past couple of weeks, I didn't know whether to drink it or get down on one knee and declare my undying love for it. I may run the risk of dissolving myself in a sea of coffee, at the rate I'm going at present, but I don't care. I can drink coffee... specifically, a Costa 'grande' cappuccino... without needing medical attention, so all's right with the world. After two and a half years of a Pringle-less existence, I ate half a tube a week or so ago. Every crunch on those little disks of crispy goodness made me want to run through the streets singing (not naked, thank goodness... though there's still time for that, I suppose).

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to decide what to have for dinner... and as the options are more or less limitless (mayonnaise is still my enemy, but I never did like the stuff all that much), this could take a while!

Wearing in my new shoes

Yesterday, following the shoe incident, we headed off towards Boulevard Saint-Germain, stopping off at Notre Dame along the way, partly because we always pop in there (with me being a bit of an architecture nut) and partly because it was so hot that we feared we might be roasted alive where we stood if we stayed outdoors. My photographs can't convey the scale of the cathedral's interior... it's awe inspiring, even with the large groups of tourists and countless flashes going off left, right and centre.




Across the road from Notre Dame, within spitting distance of the bouquinistes (the book stalls that line the streets alongside the Seine), stands the world famous bookshop 'Shakespeare & Co.', which is as popular as ever.


During the afternoon, after a serving of tarte tatin at Les Deux Magots, we headed off to the Louvre, which stays open late on Wednesdays and Fridays (until around half past nine, I think).


My primary reason for visiting any museum is to see the Japanese collection, something that the Louvre doesn't have as it was transferred to the Musée Guimet in 1945, when the Guimet transferred its Egyptian collection to the Louvre, but I also have a great interest in Egyptian antiquities. My favourite piece in the Louvre is this painted sandstone pillar fragment (below), from 1353-37 BCE, that depicts Akhenaten and comes from the Temple of Amon at Karnak. My photographs can't accurately depict this piece's size and presence. It sits atop a pillar, high above the heads of visitors, and dominates the room.




Aside from the Egyptian antiquities, I am fascinated by the louvre itself... the wall and ceiling decorations which are simply breathtaking. These shots of two of the ceilings were taken within the Egyptian antiquities department.