The bookshop problem…
I should never be left unsupervised in a beautiful bookshop.
There is something about flicking through a book in person that online shopping simply cannot replicate. The weight of it, the smell of the paper, a linen cover, embossed lettering and that moment when you land on an image that stops you completely in your tracks.
Maybe it’s a hotel in Italy. A brutalist house in Mexico. A beautifully chaotic apartment in Paris. And then, without any warning, I’ve mentally redesigned a room, booked an imaginary holiday and added another destination to the list.
Just strolling into a bookshop seems peaceful, and especially if I’m not looking for anything in particular and have the time to just aimlessly wander. One book leads to another. An interior design coffee table book turns into a book about gardens, which leads to a book about architecture. And then somehow, I find myself standing in front of a shelf of books about ceramics, despite having arrived with absolutely no intention of buying anything related to ceramics.
This is how it happens.
“One book leads to another. An interior design coffee table book turns into a book about gardens, which leads to a book about architecture. ”
Eventually, I leave (with or without a new book purchase), and suddenly I’m thinking about travelling alone, learning another language, cooking something complicated or moving to another country. You can be perfectly content with your life and still find yourself briefly convinced that what you really need is to become an expert in Japanese garden design.
And travelling can make the problem significantly worse. There is something even more romantic about buying a book while you’re away. A bookshop on the opposite side of the world feels infinitely more special than one at home, because suddenly the purchase becomes a “memory”. Which is obviously a very convenient argument when the book in question weighs approximately six kilos and I already know my suitcase is overweight. I can absolutely confirm that I have spent many an hour rearranging luggage, moving shoes into hand luggage and wearing additional layers on my return flight, because I simply HAD to buy that book.
Completely rational behaviour!
And yes, I absolutely judge books by their covers. I know we’re told not to, but I do it anyway. If a book has beautiful typography, gorgeous paper and a linen-bound cover, it already has my attention. Which usually leads to the inevitable internal conversation.
Do I need this? No.
Do I already own several books on exactly the same subject? Probably.
Do I have anywhere to put it? Not really.
Is it too beautiful to leave behind? Absolutely.
The problem is, I rarely regret buying the book. I might regret the moment at the airport when I realise my suitcase is several kilos over the limit. I might regret trying to find space for it on a shelf that was already full.
But I do not regret the book itself.
Because eventually, months or years later, I’ll pick it up again. I’ll open it at random and find the photograph that made me buy it in the first place. I’ll remember exactly where I was and the atmosphere of the place. The heat outside the shop, the sound of scooters in the street, the café I’d passed earlier. And just like that, I’m transported straight back to that moment.
And then I’ll probably notice another book on the shelf that I’d forgotten about. Which is how the whole thing starts again.
