“Diary of a Bookseller” – Shaun Bythell
It
seems I’ve read a ton of autobiographies this summer: Elton John’s Me, Tina Turner’s My Love Story, Stewart Copeland’s Strange Things Happen. I also read a bio of Freddie Mercury and
Chris Heath’s fly-on-the-wall account of life with Robbie Williams. If you see
a theme here, you’re right on the mark—the rock stars who have provided the
soundtrack to my life are telling their stories and I’m devouring them. Each of
the aforementioned is a worthy read. As laugh out loud funny as Copeland’s
brash American POV is, Dame Elton’s voice is particularly enjoyable for its
honesty and humour; the British tendency toward self-deprecation is as
hilarious as it is harrowing ... which leads me to the subject of this post.
Shaun
Bythell is a fellow from Scotland who returned to his hometown in 2001 and somehow
ended up buying a used bookshop. At one point, given the daily dramas encountered
with quirky staff and regular customers, not to mention the antics of rogue
patrons as observed from behind the counter, he decided to keep a diary, the
end result of which was first published in 2017 as Diary of a Bookseller.
It
may be a keeper. The copy I read was loaned to me by a friend and I’m unsure if
I will purchase my own, though after reading Shaun’s experience with online
selling and the insatiable monster that is Amazon, I feel somewhat compelled to
support the bookselling industry by amassing as many hard copies as possible,
even if I don’t have room for more than a hundred volumes in my reduced living
space. That’s one reason why I have a Kindle—I’ve been seduced into the
space-saving advantage of e-books even though the original hype of “books at
lower cost” is no longer true. These days a new release download costs the same
as the paperback edition; the primary bonus to the buyer is the convenience of
an entire library contained on a device the size of a drugstore pocket book.
Only thinner.
I
digress.
This
is a great book for those moments “in between”: when waiting for tea to steep,
my hair to dry, or Ter to get her shoes on. If I had a half-hour to spare, I’d
pick it up and read a few entries. Some are longer than others, as is the way
of diaries. Some days are busier than others. If nothing else, the overall glimpse
into the world of used bookselling, particularly in a small town, gave me a
greater appreciation for the stalwart souls determined to endure in a world of
on demand print, cutthroat competition and online conglomerates. Or impossible
customers, come to that. I try to be pleasant with store clerks, recognizing
that dealing with random members of the public is hard work. Not everyone shares
my perspective. The beauty of this book is that the author, who could easily swing
from objective to objectionable, simply notes the customer’s tone and general
mien during any exchange. Rarely does he descend to disparaging criticism of
any individual, no matter how appalling the individual’s attitude. The echo of
his inside voice is tempered by diplomacy for the PG-13 audience while being,
in my opinion, completely justified. Oh, some incidents are hysterical.
The
funniest observations, however, are of his staff, particularly his regular
(opposed to seasonal) employee, who gives as good as she gets both to her boss
and to the customers. It’s a slice-of-life-in-a-small-town story as much as a
view from behind the counter. My overall impression is that bookselling is not
to be undertaken lightly. It takes a special breed to take up the profession
... but if you’re not worried about making ends meet and have the people skills
to manage characters too colourful to be invented, then selling used books might
be the job for you.
