THE BOOKSHOP

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My Review: Florence Green is my current idol of Resistance. She has lived quietly and unassumingly in Hardborough, a small East Anglian seaside town, and realized that her life was simply passing and not being lived. So she took her small inheritance and opened a bookshop. Florence has faith in the power of books to improve individuals and the community, but less faith in herself. She’s stoical and sometimes assertive. But she’s usually reactive, rather than proactive; she’s not a natural businesswoman. And she doesn’t trust her own judgement of literary merit, so we never learn much about her own tastes.

I loved this book for its poetic descriptions of the place (the marshes, the buidlings) and for creating a character (Mrs Green) that is as much courageous as she is tactful and kind. She is kind to Christine, her 10-year-old shop assistant, and she's even kind to those implicated in her downfall. No, Florence is not a fool; but she's not a very sensible person, either. I loved this story and Fitzgerald's style. What some have described as sad was, for me, an enjoyable and realistic story about human nature, power, politics, jealousy, and indifference. I admired Florence's determination and spunk. She ignored Violet's subtle and not so subtle warnings. She called her wimpy solicitor a coward. Not so admirable was Violet's malevolent determination. I loved Christine and Mr. Brundish and their relationship with Florence. Too bad she didn't know that Brundish supported her to the bitter end.I haven't read all her novels yet, but the three that I have read all have a sureness of touch in vivid evocation of her scenes, with just enough oddities of style to make one continually perk up one's inner ears while reading.

A good read. For sure. An excellent writer. I think the ending de-starred this book, since the prose was really outstanding. With another ending this book would not have become an award winner. I do believe that the ambiance of the book was to confront and question our own morals and approaches to life and living and the people around us. What can we be really proud of in our relationships with other people. Where do we fit in, in this small village issues? How honest are we? What do we really contribute to any group/society we are members of? It’s a peculiar thing to take a step forward in middle age, but having done it I don’t intend to retreat.” A man won a (profitable) bookshop in a raffle, and then decided to run it with an Icelandic friend he only known online (maybe from GR, who knows?): This being 1959, a certain degree of wincing at this self-deprecating, or merely invisibly sexist, humor is to be granted; but Fitzgerald wrote the novel in 1977 or thereabouts, as it was first published in 1978. Was this mildly misogynistic sally meant to be read with a raised eyebrow, or was she simply oblivious to its sexism? I don't know, but I'm guessing it wasn't ironic based on the tone of the tale. It's very funny either way. I started to read this because I was in the mood for a cozy book about a quaint English village bookshop, but soon found out I was in for something else altogether. While there are those touches of quaint cozy English village life (of which I know nothing personally), it's mainly about the rancor and spite that rises to the surface of the village when the bookshop opens.Creo que he conectado con la historia tanto porque se de primera mano lo que es tratar de sacar un negocio adelante sola, y porque adoro esa sencillez para mostrarnos los sentimientos humanos más escondidos. If you believe that people are fundamentally somewhat selfish and unkind, this is the book for you. His fluid personality tested and stole into the weak places of others until it found it could settle down to its own advantage.” Mr. Brundish is an old man who lives alone and seldom if ever ventures out from his home. But he wants to tell Florence that one of the townspeople is hatching up a plot to get rid of her bookshop, so he invites her over. He has lived alone for so long he has no social skills, staring at her…long periods of silence that would make me or you or Florence uncomfortable… awkward…. “He talked so seldom to people that he had forgotten the accepted form of doing so.” Amusingly, the least worrisome of characters around town is the poltergeist that haunts the Old House. This inclusion is wonderfully charming as it is just an established fact that a ghost—dubbed ‘the rapper’ for their frequent and prolonged pounding sounds—exists and while they make themselves known from time to time it is hardly an intrusion. The true terrors of Hardborough are not a specter in the night but the daylight beasts of privilege and their conviction of deservedness to it.

I feel at a loss about this book. I finished it three days ago, and my thoughts about this little 1978 Booker-nominated novel still haven't settled in a definitive manner. They haven't settled at all. But apart from kindness, Florence also has tenacity, and the ending reflects this; rather than give in to despair, as a lesser person might have done, Florence moves on gracefully, though not without feelings of pain and disappointment. She ought to go down to the beach. It was Thursday, early closing, and it seemed ungrateful to live so close to the sea and never look at it for weeks on end.Florence is a portrait of innocence in this world and a figurehead for the passed-over, something that does not fare well with the machinations of society. But innocence begets innocence, and her supporters include the Sea Scounts--a club of young boys that help her clear her space and set up the store--and the utterly delightful 10 year old Christine Gipping who is the sole bookshop employee for most of the novel. I was charmed by this detail as my own 10 year old daughter enjoys spending an evening a week with me in the bookstore, pouring through novels in the corner and learning how to close down the shop (I also read this novel in its entirety while in the store, which I felt fitting). In a small coastal village in Suffolk, a childless, middle-aged, lower middle class widow decides to open a bookshop. She’s a relative newcomer (having lived there for less than ten years), and although 1959 was the cusp of great social and economic change, Hardborough lags (no fish and chip shop, no launderette, and cinema only two Saturdays per month). More significantly, not everyone is keen on her converting the Old House into a bookshop, and some actively want to stop her. That’s it. And not. Small town political machinations. Even selling the scandalous Lolita is a bit of a damp squib.