I quite often post about what I really love - writing, authors’ events and books - and, before being an aspiring writer, I’m an avid reader. As every reader, I’ve got my personal islands of happiness: my favourite bookshops. They don’t need to be extremely peculiar or stunning; what they need is to make me feel comfortable, to make me feel like I was at home. I decided to write a few articles about my preferred books-heavens in London. Some of them may be unusual. Others may not be strange, but they have a sort of special meaning for me. The first I have the pleasure of introducing to you is The London Review of Books Shop, situated in a small and quiet road opposite to the British Museum. The green wooden structure framing the windows and bearing the golden writing ‘The London Review of Books’ looms in front of you as you walk up Bury Road. The paces of curious visitors and regular customer thump on the ligneous floor. The odour of printed books, mixed with the sour smell of coffee and the sweet scent of pastries, invades your nostrils – the entrance of the café is only a few metres on the left, after the main door.
The walls are fully packed with colourful volumes; serious topics give you a warm welcome. In this area, you can find everything you may need to know about current affairs and travels. If you step to the side on your left, History becomes the principal subject. The rectangular counter stands at the end of the room; two gentlemen – a guy about thirty-year-old and an older man – observe the tranquil strolling of the customers and help the most demanding readers to find their book of interest. I walk along the room, glancing at the three tables in the middle of the aisle. The volumes deal with the current politics, intriguing essays, and, on the last stand, fiction books. I gazed at the counter and notice an arrow-shaped sign pointing at the lower floor. Before going down, I turn to my right. The room expands, and I plunge into the fiction section. Crime, novels, mystery, sci-fi, and romance are neatly displayed before my eyes. I decide to explore the basement; I slowly descend the stairs, step-by-step. A man sits in an armchair at the bottom of the stairs. He raises his head and glances at me, then, without flinching, he resumes reading the book which lays on his lap. The small room is fascinating; philosophy, literary criticism and, children books dominate the entire sector. The smell of coffee and cake strongly hits my nostrils again, as I climb the stairs back. The café is as cosy and welcoming as the whole shop. The window contains the most delicious and mouth-watering brownie, muffins, and cakes. A line of tables is along the wall opposite the counter. A few people occupy the common table to my right. They all are busy in tasting their cakes and sipping their warm afternoon teas. I sit at the only table available next to the door and I order a brownie and rooibos tea. I’m feeling as comfortable as I hadn’t ever left home. The bookshop is precisely this: a warm and welcoming home. If books are the unique portable magic – as Stephen King claimed – bookshops are the unique magic realms of every reader.
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November 2020
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