Time was Soft There
A Paris Sojourn at Shakespeare & Co.
by Jeremy Mercer
Overview
From the Publisher
Wandering through Paris's Left Bank one day, poor and unemployed, Canadian reporter Jeremy Mercer ducked into a little bookstore called Shakespeare Co. Mercer bought a book, and the staff invited him up for tea. Within weeks, he was living above the store, working for the proprietor, George Whitman, patron saint of the city's down-and-out writers, and immersing himself in the love affairs and low-down watering holes of the shop's makeshift staff. Time Was Soft There is the story of a journey down a literary rabbit hole in the shadow of Notre Dame, to a place where a hidden bohemia still thrives.
My thoughts
I picked up this book thinking I was going to get some sort of Shakespearian education. I like Paris, I'm mildly interested in Shakespeare - OK, not really, but perhaps I should be and maybe I would be at the conclusion of this book, I certainly thought it was worth the risk. I know, I know, my ignorance is showing. I'd never heard of Shakespeare & Company. I had no idea of it's fame or history, I knew nothing about the proprietor, I had no idea it's a bookstore with beds.
The book starts out with some rough truths about life. The author was a Canadian crime reporter who saw some gruesome things. It took its toll and he battled some addictions and had some brushes with the law. He ran away to Paris to escape a death threat. Wandering the streets nearly broke, he quite accidentally stumbled upon the bookstore and discovered it's a safe haven for struggling writers. He moved in, and tells the story of living with other troubled writers. The history of the store and it's eclectic proprietor is captivating. It's not a pleasant story at times, though its written in an upbeat manner. I quite enjoyed the book, and I simply must see this place when I'm in Paris!
Favorite Passage
Once George opened the bookstore, these lessons proved crucial. He washed his clothes by hand, ate the most basic of meals, and shunned the cinemas or restaurants. With this regime, not only was he able to survive on the bookstore's paltry receipts but he also managed to provide communal meals and tuck away enough money to keep expanding the bookstore.
After seven decades like this, George could stretch a franc to unimaginable lengths. No piece of bread was too stale or rind of cheese too dry. Once, I was soundly berated for pouring the leftover pickle juice down the sink while washing the jar. "That's a delicacy! I can make soup with that. I used to drink pickle juice," George roared. "What are you? A Rockefeller?"
