Much of historical fiction is about big, grand monarchs, presidents and heads of state doing big, grand things. The Paris Bookseller by Kerri Maher is a delectable biographical novel that offers a contrast in intimate dimensions, featuring a woman protagonist, Sylvia Beach, whose world-shaking action is, opening a bookstore.
It’s a telling fact that The Paris Bookseller was written during the pandemic (and following the upsurge of right-wing chaos in the world, especially Trumpian America). In such a climate, you want to celebrate the nourishing, healing and transformative power of books? This book does that.
The life-changing journey to ‘find oneself’ is the plot of many novels and films, mainly with protagonists who are white people, as is Sylvia. Rather curious, because in real life the life-changing journey is universal. And yet, to relocate trans-continentally, as Sylvia does, takes money and privilege. That doesn’t diminish the momentousness of the journey, but only places it in perspective. And while most of these journeys transform the protagonist alone, Sylvia’s journey transforms English-language literature itself. That makes it stand out.
The book is based on the real-life Sylvia Beach, and is faithful to major details, as per the author. Sylvia Beach moved to Paris, opened the legendary Shakespeare and Company bookstore, went on to publish, defiantly, Ulysses by James Joyce, a book banned in America on charges that its frank depictions of sexuality were obscene, and the book changed English-language fiction forever.
Beach’s personal and professional life in Paris forms the backbone of this story. Sylvia faced a series of obstacles. Some were purely financial – running a bookstore and turning publisher at the same time. Some were legal, stemming from the controversy around Joyce’s book. Some were personal, the complications of love. Some obstacles were born of the difficult nature of James Joyce.
Joyce is a major character here, and this book has come out close to the 100th anniversary of the publication of Ulysses in its entirety. Joyce comes across as a genius who barely honours his friendship with Sylvia, though he makes amends at the end of the story – he pretty much saves the bookshop from financial ruin. Other big-name writers make an appearance, Ernest Hemingway, for instance, who is an important character, quirks and all; also Ezra Pound and Gertrude Stein. Sylvia’s romantic partner, the French bookshop owner Adrienne Monnier, a woman, and other Parisians in Sylvia’s circle, also appear frequently. Through their conversations with Sylvia, these writerly and culturally inclined folks rub shoulders with us.
We are helped to live vicariously in a world filled with the company of people who are transforming English-language literature; as well as passionate explorations of relationships, books, and good food; all this in Paris, too, and in a time of optimism and zeal after World War I. It’s all cosy, dreamy wish-fulfilment for us - finding love and oneself, having a circle of literary friends, being part of the zeitgeist. To quote: “Sylvia felt part of something grand that night, a wide river rushing forward from a past that had swept up the likes of Ben Franklin, Baudelaire, Picasso, Edith Wharton, and now Blake and Whitman along with Larbaud and Cocteau and Joyce and Adrienne and Sylvia and her store. They were all part of the same persistent current, like a river crashing over rocks and tree roots, picking up speed and often carrying away the things that threatened to hinder its flow.”
The writing is adroitly crafted, using few words to say a lot – “Falling in love with Adrienne even changed the way Sylvia read. Instead of awe and ache when she read passages about love and the cravings of the body, she felt herself part of that world, anointed into it by Adrienne. She could now truly feel in her veins the releases that Stephen Dedalus (a character created by Joyce) so feared and also longed for…” And in another place, “Sylvia treasured the moments when Adrienne’s breathing grew ragged and raspy, her fingers pulling hard on Sylvia’s hair as pleasure pulsed through her body”. There are enough details to vivify the narrative without making it lag or taxing our faculties; which makes this an easy, satisfying read.
Sylvia’s zest is a refreshing antidote to fashionable, disingenuous jadedness. She, in quietly dramatic fashion, transforms from a tentative, amorphous youth to a self-possessed and ambitious young woman who wants to “effect change in the world” through literature. In other ways, too, she will resonate with many readers. Besides being optimistic and idealistic, Sylvia, as a woman who loves a woman, and as a believer in free speech and liberal values, embodies many themes which are urgently relevant to 2022. She forms the core of this feminist book. Moreover, through Sylvia, the book mentions and pays homage to other women whose contributions to literature went unsung, while the men they supported became famous.
But the book does not foment outrage, it has a quiet voice. It celebrates the transformative power of books, also the fact that seemingly minor actions have massive impacts – open an indie bookstore, for instance, or even just open a book, and you help change the world for the better, little by little. It’s a hopeful sentiment, a particularly welcome one at this juncture after the announcement of Westland’s closure.
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