On an unusually upbeat evening, I was winding up from work. The recently bought, crisp, intense 300-pages long fictional drama, that I had left, tantalizingly, at the 273rd page the previous night, was softly tip-toeing in front of my eyes. The unread pages were already floating invitingly in the evening breeze and I could not wait to reach home for resuming the date. When I was just stepping into the lift, I received a call from a friend, a bibliophile in fact. ‘Hey! Do you know they are closing down L_____ ?! Can’t believe it man! I am .…….’I was not listening. No more. The words that reverberated, at first, in concentric circles and then, suspended frozen, were ‘closing down'. That place; so many books, so many friends, so many chuckles, so many revelations, so many years, so many memories….. so much, no more. The floating pages dropped dead, the tantalization turned grievous and the upbeat became deadbeat in an instant.For many of us, a bookshop is the second home; for some, the first. Florence Green was a proud member of the latter category and was on a mission to enroll the sleepy town of Hardborough, Suffolk under the former. Sustained, most of her life, by the kinship, the euphoria, the enthusiasm and the solace emanating from brick structures immersed in sagacious thoughts and profound poetry, she was more pained than surprised to see that Hardborough, where she had moved after being bared of her familial ties, had no bookshop. Promising herself that her forty-something frame, both above the shoulders and below them, was steely enough to brave the bureaucratic hurdles and warm enough to spread the literary cuddles, she embarked upon filling this void by opening and running a bookshop from the ‘Old House’. Courage and endurance are useless if they are never tested. And so were hers. The courage and endurance, which lay sheltered under the industrious shields of Christine, her 10-year old meticulous assistant, Ivy, her volatile-but-ethical accountant, Raven, the vagabond-but-helpful marshman and Wally, the mischievous courier boy-cum-cleaner came under trenchant attacks from the ill-disposed but politically powerful Mrs. Gamart, the supine-but-acerbic TV anchor, Milo and well, even the ‘poltergeist’ at the ‘Old House’. Florence fights, valiantly, through bundles of unsold stock, dwindling helping hands, dilapidating premises, legal impediments and shrinking hope. But her internecine fight was not in vain. She gained, me.When she continues to deliver free books to the primary schools despite her gloomy financial books, I stand there like a loyal visitor, enamored by her desire to spread the sparks of learning. When she trounces her duplicitous attorney with an authority that rivals those with the parliamentary sentinels at their disposal, I feel my hands instinctively rise to safeguard her from the legal barrage. And when her clamorous ordeal compels Mr. Brundish, the recluse boulevardier with highest distinction, to banish his decrepitude, drag his limp body, wound around a walking stick and counter Mrs. Gamart with a countenance to bring the wrongdoer to dirt, I could not help but feel proud. Will-power is useless without a sense of direction. But what direction did Florence choose in the end? I don’t know because she never told me. I guess no one, in her place, would have. Because people who love books and bookshops are much like them: they don’t believe in ends...
What an ugly little book this is. The town seems ugly, not at all picturesque (at least as described), and the people who live in it are even worse; small minded, uncultured, unfriendly and toady. Why would anyone want to live there, or choose to open a business there? I’m afraid I didn’t much care for this bleak and uncompromisingly downbeat novel. I found I couldn’t even feel bad for the protagonist who seemed a rather silly sort who opens a book shop on a whim (not from a love of books). *spoilers*Mrs Green opens her book shop in a long abandoned old building and learns that a wealthy and influential (filthy rich and powerful) local harridan wants the old building for an “arts centre.” When our protagonist resists entreaties to find a different property or give up the venture altogether the villain sets into motion a scheme to displace her for good and all. I hated the filthy rich woman, but I never developed much affection for Mrs Green either. The author failed to imbue her with any endearing qualities. I felt that I was more outraged at what was happening to Mrs Green than she was herself. There was no outburst of righteous indignation: “I’ve been wronged, damn it!” “I’m being persecuted!” The town folk are a motley crew who don’t seem to care much about this woman, her business or her situation. If I were Mrs Green I fear this would have morphed into an Agatha Christie story of local dowager found in the drawing room with the sash from the curtains wound round her throat. The actual ending is ultra-real and quite harsh.There is an underdeveloped and wholly superfluous subplot involving a poltergeist, as well as anecdotal scenes of running the book shop. I’m afraid I didn’t buy into the drama. The whole seemed rather stagnant and failed to engage me on any emotional level until the very end…but too little too late.
What do You think about The Bookshop (1997)?
"She had a kind heart, though that is not of much use when it comes to the matter of self-preservation.""They were all kind to their hostess, because it made life easier.""She blinded herself, in short, by pretending for a while that human beings are not divided into exterminators and exterminatees, with the former, at any given moment, predominating.""It often seemed to her that if she knew exactly what her financial position was down to the last three farthings, as Ivy Welford impressed upon her that she should, she would not have the courage to carry on for another day."
—Jaime
5 Stars for Craftsmanship, 3 Stars for EntertainmentAt around 150 pages The Bookshop is a work that can be devoured in a single sitting, and is intended to be. The Bookshop is perfect in every way. It is a literary masterpiece where every action, scene, sentence and image exists for a reason and is swollen with significance like the swollen marshes of the fens that lace the novel.From the first page we encounter the portent imagery of a heron and an eel fighting for their survival, a motif which occurs throughout the novel, encapsulating Florence Green’s fight with her community. As the story develops there are other significant motifs to ponder; the red dress for example or the behaviour of ‘the rapper’.The plot is simply poised; our protagonist, middle-aged Florence Green decides to open a bookshop in her village and is shocked to discover that local opposition is about to make her venture more difficult than she predicted. This is a book about the spite and fear that exists in provincial communities but it is also a portrait of the individual versus bureaucracy.Fitzgerald makes allusions to the rotting current of unfairness with simple narrative enhancements; the village is named Hardborough for example. There is damp in the old buildings signifying that rot is setting in.The characters are drawn with dark humour. In any other setting and in under a lesser writer’s pen they could easily have become caricatures, but it is testament to Fitzgerald’s skill that many of them remain on the right side of revolting.So as outlined earlier, this book is perfect so why only 4 stars? Without question The Bookshop deserves 5 stars for literary merit, economy of style and demonstrating insight into human nature, presented in beautiful, lyrical prose, but I just failed to find it entertaining as a novel. I am only too aware that this is a subjective point of view and a matter of individual taste. I wished I’d enjoyed it more, the book deserved it, but I would whole-heartedly recommend it anyone who appreciates style and form, especially within poetry or short stories to give it a go. You may engage with it on a whole new level. I can’t deny that this book is important, and has added something new to my appreciation of great writing. I think Penelope Fitzgerald summed it up best herself in The Bookshop:“A good book is the precious life-blood of a masterspirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life, and as such it must surely be a necessary commodity.”
—BookScout
I felt that this book was a disappointment, on the whole. Florence was only sympathetic (as a character, I mean) in her slightly witty returns to the letters which tried to evict her from the Old House. The rest of the time she didn't really do much. She didn't even say why she wanted to open a bookshop. She doesn't particularly like to read, or it was never said that she did. She just wanted to open a bookshop just because? Doesn't make much sense to me. Also, she could have easily kept her place, given some good solicitors. I'm no lawyer, but even I could tell you that /just because there's half an inch of water on the land doesn't make it not land/. When that Mr. Somebody-or-Other (I can't remember his name, but I think it began with a B) up and /died/ in the middle of the street, I was sort of mad. Nothing more devoted to him than a walking across the street and /dying/ sentence? The rapper was annoying. Fitzgerald could have either put more time into his storyline or cut him out. There's nothing else supernatural in the story, which makes the rapper a suspicious element and draws away from the storyline. The ending was depressing. It was like the dancing cookie joke. A lot like the dancing cookie joke. I've pretty much just summed up every single negative review of this book on Goodreads. But they were true, so I feel justified in doing so.
—Nix
