Thursday, May 29, 2008

If you're in the area..

Drop into  the Shakespeare & Company literary festival from the 12th to the 15th of June.

www.festivalandco.com

I've also been invited to a "Young Booksellers" meeting hosted by the ABA. Apparently these booksellers range in age range from their twenties to sixties. Booksellers are strange strange people. God bless us every one.

That's it for this one. Times are very busy and very productive. Website things are coming along slowly but surely and soon the littlesnapper will be trading.
Posted by littlesnapper at 10:12:19 | Permanent Link | Comments (1) |

Friday, May 23, 2008

the little snapper lives!

I bought the domain name yesterday. I want a countdown clock. By september the littlesnapper will live for all your book-buying and selling needs!
Posted by littlesnapper at 21:06:53 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

the cult and the awful..

I've decided this blog will be written two to three times weekly. There. I said it. I'm very busy trying to earn a living selling books and it takes me time to articulate & gather these thoughts of great profundity.
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Some of my favourite books tend to be referred to as cult books. These books tend to be single books in the body of an authors work and are marked as being distinct from anything else the author has written. A one of a kind book that ticks all the boxes and is revered by smallish groups usually outside the mainstream audience of readers. For example. Terry Pratchett, Anna Kavan & Marian Keyes are cult authors. The body of their work appeals to the same audience and their books are easily recognisable as being part of their 'oeuvre'. I'll write more about them in a later post. Cult books are generally difficult to transpose into different mediums such as film, theatre, or godmercifulsaveus, the broadway musical because they isolate and highlight peculiarities of text and story that become their emblems. A few examples.

Perfume by Patrick Suskind: Brilliant book about evil incarnate that becomes a master of scent &the manipulation of the olfactory senses. You'll be fascinated by 18th century France and its surrounding atmosphere that faintly suggests parahuman conditions that can shape our lives and yet be invisible to us.  The laboratories that Grenouille, the main character, uses are reminiscent of alchemy and they are, perhaps a little obviously, the means by which Grenouille transforms himself into a murderer. The translation is damn good. Writing which cuts clear and concise images and builds Grenouille from a freak into a figure worthy of lore. Made into a film in 2001 where the filmakers overcame the difficulty of showing scent by using colours. This was followed by the two novella's The Story of Mr Sommer, which is illustrated by Sempé & The Pigeon which wasn't so well received. Both gems in their own right but the subject matter is so dramatically redisguised in the slow-moving tales that they become almost parables and much more difficult to identify.

Day of the Jackal by Frederick Forsyth: Released as a film twice. Once in '73 with Edward Fox in a  decent faithful adaptation and once in '97 in a godawful modern adaptation with Richard Gere and Bruce Willis. The table of contents is divided into three parts;
1. Anatomy of a plot
2. Anatomy of a manhunt
3. Anatomy of a kill
which is exactly how the book unfolds. The narrative splits its time between the assassin's careful preparation for the kill & the mild-mannered detective who goes about his business of tracking down the Jackal and finding out more about him. The book is notable for the meticulous way in which it sets out the details of both men. The Jackal's manipulation of women and opportunists for a political cause is  shown in relief to the background of an initially sympathetic cause. The former soldiers that make up the OAS are seeking recognition from a government who isolated them and left them in a conflict zone by granting Algeria's independence. The Jackal's journey to Paris takes on the form of a revenge killing set up by a extinct political structure. In the end there is none of the usual 'good guy, bad guy' routine. Just an ending. Don't bother even trying to read anything else by Forsyth. It's all rubbish that reveals him to be a right-wing idiot who just hapened to fall on a brilliant story that fitted his technique. This one  though ticks all the boxes and will set the imagination afire.

Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson: This one is credited with the popularisation of such terms we use every day on the internet such as 'avatar', 'meta-verse', and the idea of internet shopping malls and high streets. What differentiates this cyber-punk novels from, say, William Gibson, is the intensity of the satire and high level of intertextuality from ancient Japanese and Greek texts to the present. Think 1950's pulp paperback Western with a Japanese twist in a probable future. Basically the world has been screwed so badly that we prefer living our lives jacked in to the interactive meta-reality of the web. Our avatars are created by us in a superb inference of wish fulfillment worthy of Joseph Campbell. That universe is threatened by the appearance of a drug which you take in the meta-verse called Snow Crash which does the obvious. Again, the writing is fast-paced, concise and clear. There's are good guys who go after the bad guys and then there are the oblivious. Sound familiar? The reason this one is a cult classic though is because of the immediate recognisability of the satire that easily bridges the uncomfortable gap between straight fiction and sci-fi. The intertextuality doesn't interfere with the easy reading of the book either but rather doesn't simply stop at the textual. The main character's name is 'Hiro Protagonist'! I won't spell it out. It's a great little book and although it was Stephenson's third novel he hasn't yet written another one quite like it that damn good & all his other books just fade in comparison.
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And there are, of course others. But I'll keep them for another time. I've got to keep something to stuff up my sleeve, otherwise what would be the point?
Posted by littlesnapper at 00:30:12 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Listening to the people

Alright. So I've listened to the comments, deleted some of them. If I delete your comment it's only cos I want to be stringent about it. Also it's amazing how much readers are saying the same thing. What we need is an open forum and it will come soon on the website. I'm impressed anyone can decipher my unwriterly scrawl.

Yesterday another old Irish guy comes into my shop. He's from Bournemouth and apparently the name of his shop fell down and he's never bothered replacing it. During the day he sits in the Brazilian café next door while the sign in the window of his shop lets you know where to reach him. "I made my money long ago," says he to me, "If I didn't own the damn building I would have been out long ago." Pulling out another book from the shelf he literally shouts at me. "This was remaindered thirty years ago, WH Smith had a bin full of them for threepence each." He shoves the film tie-in Raymond Chandler back on the shelf. "Bought loads of them an still have them." We started talking about the state of bookselling &c &c. It's a conversation that always follows the same lines and doen't do much to deviate but it's always a fresh topic that all booksellers like to harp on. "It's sad when you can see in The Bookseller that you can buy a shop with all its stock," and this is the shocking bit, "for cost."

It's true. If you wanted to buy a bookshop and had enough cash to do it, there's no stopping you. In fact now is the time, my friends, to take advantage in a business-like manner of other people's misery. Buy the goddamned bookshop you've always wanted with your friends. Learn from the business model of such shops as Shakespeare&Co and the folksdown at the lovely, though for me still unseen, Atlantis Books and start trading. Trade online and trade hand to hand. Door to door if you need to. Convince people to read Ezra Pound just because you love the idea that life slips by like a field mouse/ not shaking the grass, and because you need to meet the rent this month. You will learn so much from yourself it'll be surprising. Give it a while and you'll have been elevated by your craft, humbled by the fact that you will never 'make money' from the trade and will have read such diffferent genres, books of all kinds, learned to tell a book by its cover, the year by the paper. All automatically becoming intrinsic. That's the great thing about bookselling. All you'll ever need to know about what you're doing is right there in the copy you're holding in your hands. Hardback, paperback, dustjacket and without, broadsheet, poster, artwork. Then you'll get around to the cynicism that lets face it, you have to deal with in any trade though none schools you quite as thoroughly as the book trade. You'll believe that the only bookshop is one without anyone in it (for various reasons). That the majority of the book-reading public are idiots led by the fresh-slaughter scent of mass-production-fed marketing. Can you believe that The Reluctant Fundamentalist been promoted on poster with the words"the Man Booker nominee that everyone is talking about." or that "no one can go without reading. And it's working!!! since the ad came out people are buying that book over others! Lambs, if you'll excuse my french. The only thing that stands between the vat of disinformation is you. The bookseller. 'Nuff said.

Hell, if you want help setting up an independent book venture just give me a shout and I can put you in touch with like-minded people.

In my last post I said the book trade was in recession. The Boss is in financial difficulties. He fired and rehired me in the same phone conversation yesterday. Today I hit the streets looking for another job. No one will be immune to my charm. Bookshop owners will fall at my feet and beg me to come work for them. My extensive list of contacts will cohesively gel into a beautiful greased up mechanism that will enable to choose my pick of whom-so-ever I please. Pray for me.

And finally the plug. I hope y'all get some good reading tips from the text of this blog but in case they've all been too subtle and/or you don't have time to be chasing these things up here's a quick tip:

Last in the Emitron series and produced by the outrageously talented boys at Borbonesa, indie publishers, indie booksellers, bibliofanatics. It's enough to make you sick with envy and jealousy. Did I mention they were beautiful too? Yep, all Swedish blondes who'll welcome you with open breasts should you ever make the pilgrimage down to Brighton to see them. Just mention you bought Emitron 4 and you'll be in like Flynn. It's 3.5 UK pounds so that means it's within grasp of everyone. It's a beautifully intricate little designed booklet that contains all the sum of knowledge in the universe which veers somewhere close to the direction of art. As much a collector's piece and artwork as much as a book buy two, one to read,& one to keep in the original packaging. You would be an idiot to have them sell all of the numbered first editions without you having one for yourself. I got mine in the post yesterday so I'm good. You heard it here first.

Posted by littlesnapper at 11:10:20 | Permanent Link | Comments (2) |

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Tales from the desk

My exams are all over. All that remains to be seen is what result my 'hard work' brings. I'm sure it'll be fine, sure, I'm always being told I land on my own two feet. Personally I always like to think that I'm never up in the air without enough coffee & nicotine to gently waft my way down.

However, the sleep deprivation and stress has brought about some fairly uncomfortable situations. You've only had a few hours sleep in the last four or five days so hand and eye co-ordination is a little off. Your perception of reality has been tweaked by stimulants and the three year old in the pram seems to be looking straight at you with sinister intent. And her head seems to have pivoted an awfully long way from her chest.

I was selling some kids books to a yummy mummy and her insane little undead demon of her womb. The Gruffalo, The Hungry Caterpillar, Sasek's This is London, some of the Mr.Men Series, some other of the gorgeous books that my most excellent Portugese colleague orders. The kid was yelling and dancing around the shop as all spoilt little brats do and I was smiling and forbearing it while I pulled out more books that my yummy mummy cooed over and stacked in the pram complimenting me on my taste as I did so. She knew I was a little under her spell & she encouraged me to talk about myself, asked me if I had kids -I had just shaved so looked about twelve- she leaned a little closer into me when I told her of the other bookshop I where sold rare & modern 1st editions. When I finally got her to the till and she had paid I was feeling uncomfortably flustered. It was almost over and I was already mourning her loss. I handed the two bags of her books over the till and gave the child another little bag with the travel sweets she had thrown a tantrum for. When I started bending back up again I realised that I had been level with the yummy mummy's indecently exposed breasts the entire time. She flounced them back into my face once again before she left, shaking my hand and thanking me profusely. She promised to come back the next time she was in town. What does that mean? I'm not going to be winning any great matches with my conscience or the devilchild if she does come back.

As I mentioned I also work for another excellent bookshop that specialises in modern first editions, beat art & literature, drug books and just generally, um, counterculture. In the heart of Soho headed by The Boss, one of the most charismatic booksellers I have ever met, my boss knows everything happening in the town and has a personal invite to it. His personal friends and customers include Patti Smith and Jude Law. His knowledge of books is encyclopedic and his taste unimpeachable. The bookshop mirrors his taste, an eclectic and excellent stock of literature outside of the mainstream, a person of quality.

Again, I had been up all night in the library doodling on bookcovers and pulling out books that had nothing really to do with my exams. Next day I was working. It was an awful day. Later I found that I sent the wrong books to the wrong people. I had been late due to falling asleep at my kitchen table. The weather had not yet turned into this heatwave that forces yummy mummies to bare all while parading their spawn of satan. It rained all day. The Boss didn't bat an eyelid when I was late. There was only a calm and gravelly message on my phone. The book mix-up didn't fluster him either. There was a big pile of books he had bought/been gifted from the Strand in New York. When he left me to my chores I tried hard to sell a couple of books. There was barely anyone in the court and foot-traffic was at an ultimate standstill. Anyone who came into the shop seemed to already be in the trade and not interested in what I had to offer. A young-ish stockbroker tried to convince me his first edition of Harry Potter was worth 9000 pounds and worth buying when it's worth less than the ugly boring socks he was wearing. A student wanted to buy the very first edition of Austen's Pride and Prejudice when I couldn't have sold him the steam off my piss for what he wanted to spend. The recession has hit small-holders harder than you can imagine but blindingly stupid and wilful ignorance hits even harder these days.  An aging Irishman come into my shop to ask some questions about a Pietro Psaier painting of James Joyce we have and we start talking about Irish art and literature. He has some interesting things to say and I listen. He tells me about his youth and as is usual in a conversation with someone your elder he invariably comes up with a modification of the 'when you're young you can do this kindof thing' line. I tell him my age and he says to me in sincere understanding: "Sure I carried my age well till I hit 42. It was all downhill from there"  The Boss phones me to ask if I had sold anything else yet. As the Irishman from Mayo leaves and I'm smoking outside the shop, The Boss walks towards me and I can point out the erstwhile customer. I hadn't sold the 1500 pound painting, I didn't sell anything else and after work, instead of even attempting to go study, I just went home and fell asleep on the couch in my room to dream of punchlines and great sales pitches that net the moon an' everything else.
Posted by littlesnapper at 16:21:13 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |