My Time as a Tumbleweed at Shakespeare and Company Ipswich Mon Amour

Shakespeare and Company

26 Apr No Comments Stephen Burke About the Novel

In July 1990, a fire broke out in the Sylvia Beach memorial library at Shakespeare and Company in Paris. More than 4000 rare books, including signed first editions, were lost in the blaze. The next day, the building was without electricity and water. But the doors still opened, and the bookshop carried on as best it could while repairs were made.

Many people who love books, literature and the writing life are familiar with the famed establishment. I became aware of Shakespeare and Company when I was in my early twenties as I read about the expat writers and artists who made Paris their home following the First World War.

In spring 1991, an airline offered a round-trip fare from several U.S. cities to Paris for $400. I jumped on the deal, and a week later I was walking the streets of Paris.

Arriving at Shakespeare and Company

Along with my travel essentials, I brought 35 issues of Over the Wall Review, a literary publication a friend and I had started in Seattle. My hope was to sell them to Shakespeare and Company, then see them positioned prominently in the shop.

When I walked inside, the owner George Whitman was seated at the front register. He listened patiently to my pitch while leafing through a copy of the 8 x 11 publication. “We only carry one literary journal right now,” he said, and pointed to The Paris Review. I had to admit that the journal I was trying to sell was not quite in the same league.

George Whitman in the Shakespeare and Company bookshop in Paris.

George Whitman in his element. Photo by the famous bookship in Paris.

After scanning the first page of Over the Wall Review, where my friend and I described ourselves as aspiring writers, George softened the rejection.

“So you’re a writer,” he said. “You’re welcome to stay here while you’re in Paris.”

I looked around the place wondering what he meant. Was he telling me I could sleep with the hardcovers and paperbacks?

I followed him up a stairway to a second floor filled with bookshelves. A doorway at the back led to a room with beds. I believe they were bunk beds.

Labor for Lodging

He explained that writers visiting Paris were welcome to live at Shakespeare and Company in exchange for doing daily chores. That might be working the register, stocking books, cleaning and such. Men stayed on the second floor, women on a floor above. After a quick peek into the sleeping area, similar to what you’d see in a youth hotel, I followed George to the front room.

The front of Shakespeare and Company in Paris.

I didn’t know about the fire, so I was shocked to see what it had done to a reading room that had held so many valuable books. The place was scorched… walls, ceiling, everything.

At one end of the space, a thick oak door opened onto the building’s main stairway. I noted the burn marks on one side. George told me that the first of my chores would be to help restore the surface of the oak. I would also be responsible for opening the front shutters of the bookshop at the start of the business day, along with the ones on the antiquarian bookshop next door, then closing them all at the end. My final chore was to wheel out the used book carts in the morning and return them inside when it was time to lock up.

It seemed more than fair to me as a labor-for-lodging deal. On top of that was the experience of living in a place with connections to so many amazing writers.

A Tradition at Shakespeare and Company

I checked out of my inexpensive hotel in the 14^th arrondissement and settled into one of the beds at the back of the second floor. There was a 30 day limit for “Tumbleweeds,” as visiting writers were called.

After unpacking, I met one, then another of my fellow Tumbleweeds. We became quick friends, a group of men and women who spent much of our time together talking about our lives, our favorite writers and our hopes to pen our own great books eventually.

Shakespeare and Company Antiquarian Shop by night.

The Antiquarian bookstore next to the main shop

One guy staying there gave me a few tips on that first night, starting with bedbugs. He rolled up a pant leg to show me some nasty bites. “Sleep in your pants,” he said. “And roll your socks over the bottom.” I can’t say for sure whether there were bedbugs or not, but I followed his advice and never suffered a bite.

Time as a Tumbleweed

In a typical day, when we weren’t managing our chores, we’d spend much of the morning and afternoon reading and writing. Later on, we’d wander the city together, finding cheap places to eat and drink. Often at night we’d end up hanging out by the Seine, sharing a bottle and meeting others who were doing the same.

Our eclectic crew was constantly turning over, with writers packing up and leaving, and new ones checking in. We were like a perpetual stew, with new arrivals adding their own particular flavor to the mix. My status as rookie quickly changed to veteran.

One night when we were drifting off to sleep, the door to the bunkroom opened, and someone stepped inside. He was hauling a backpack and an old, heavy typewriter. We turned on the light long enough for him to find a free bed and unload his gear. Once he slid beneath the sheets, we all introduced ourselves, and the new guy shared his petite histoire. He grew up in Oregon, and was recently engaged to be married. The day before the wedding, his fiancé called the whole thing off.

It came as a complete shock to him, and in his understandably distraught state he grabbed his passport and typewriter, then fled to Morocco. He checked into a cheap hotel on the outskirts of Marrakesh and typed away for several weeks. Having gotten it out of his system, more or less, he was now making a gradual return to what was left of his life. A Tumbleweed indeed.

George Whitman—the Face of Shakespeare and Company

George Whitman standing in front of Shakespeare and Company in Paris.

George Whitman was a constant presence at Shakespeare and Company, always busy even at the age of 78. When you couldn’t see him, you’d often still hear him greeting a customer or instructing a Tumbleweed on the proper way to carry out a certain task.

There were times when he would invite us all up to his apartment to share snacks and conversation. He really enjoyed the company of fellow writers, and he loved chatting away on various topics. His wife would sometimes be there, and his daughter Sylvia, who was around 10 at the time. They were a happy family, and very generous in sharing their lives and their home with so many strangers.

Fête de la Musique

One day during my third week at Shakespeare and Company, I looked out the second floor window to see the streets of Paris more crowded than ever. The sound of jazz was blowing like a warm breeze through the early evening air. It was coming from a saxophonist playing on a nearby street corner. In the other direction, I saw a girl playing a violin to a group gathered around her.

It was Fête de la Musique, an annual celebration that takes place all over France on June 21. The holiday, I learned, marks the summer solstice and draws musicians and festive throngs to the streets of Paris. Our little writing crew spent the next several hours wandering the city and soaking it all in.

Celebrating Fête de la Musique on June 21st every year

Every corner seemed to have a musician or group playing to the crowds. In the streets and squares, people were dancing and enjoying themselves.

At some point that night, the celebratory atmosphere prompted an idea. We were standing on the quay, the stone walkway running along the Seine, when someone suggested swimming across the river. Since we were opposite Île de la Cité, where the river was narrow, the dip would be fairly brief.

Swimming the Seine (Not Recommended)

We all knew how polluted the water was, but most of us were in. We quickly stripped down to our underwear and found a staircase into the murky depths. The two Tumbleweeds who opted to stay dry were responsible for carrying our clothing across the bridge and down to the opposite quay.

People enjoying a summer sunset along the Seine

My first concern was that the water would be cold, but it wasn’t. I tried my best not to let any of it splash into my mouth, and I think I succeeded. But my face did get wet, and I do recall a certain odor coming off the river, unpleasant but not overpowering.

The stunt didn’t go unnoticed. A few people on the bank we departed were cheering us on. Others on the opposite side saw our heads moving across the water, and did double takes. Police officers patrolling the bridge spotted us as well, and they moved quickly toward our landing place. Only later did we find out that it was illegal to swim in the Seine.

I’ve never dressed so quickly in my life. As the police raced down the steps to the quay, we fled in the opposite direction. I didn’t have time to tie my laces and tried not to trip on them. Back at street level, we managed to vanish into the crowds, running and laughing our way through several streets to a café where we celebrated our escape.

The next morning, those of us who had dipped in the river made our way to the YMCA on the Right Bank for a long shower. Over the years, I’ve wondered how many toxins my skin absorbed on that first, and so far only, swimming of the Seine.

My Tumbleweed Tale

One requirements for Tumbleweeds, then and now, is to write a one-page autobiography for the archives. I waited until the day before my departure. It became my main focus for those final hours. I can remember the gist of it. I talked about the world that I came from, the one that had shaped me. That milieu would later be the subject of my first novel, The Chieftains of South Boston, a story I had to fight my way through before I would be free to move on to others.

My autobiography centered on family, and I tried to sprinkle the tale with humor by using a potato as metaphor. I believe I pulled it off pretty well, at least as well as a budding writer all juiced up about living the dream in a dream place for 30 days.

Before leaving, I asked George if he would be willing to take my 35 copies of Over the Wall Review for free. I really didn’t want to carry them all home. He said yes. Who knows if any of them ever sold, but at least I got to see them sitting alongside The Paris Review near the front register.

I did return with some journals, though. Not mine, but 40 copies of a pamphlet about Shakespeare and Company, and the fire that had done so much damage. It was a fund-raising effort to help restore the reading room. George asked me to deliver them to a guy names Richard who ran a bookshop on University Avenue (“The Ave”) in Seattle. Apparently, George Whitman knew lots of people around the world who were in the book-selling business. I delivered the journals to Richard, along with George’s best wishes.

L’Esprit de Paris

Cafes at twilight on Île Saint-Louis in Paris

In my third novel, Ipswich, Mon Amour, a young Nora Mahoney visits Paris for the first time. There aren’t any scenes in or about Shakespeare and Company, only a brief mention as Nora passes the shop. But it was so much fun to write that chapter and revisit my time in Paris. It has a spirit that never leaves you once you’ve taken the plunge.

I tried to capture that in the following paragraph. It describes Nora’s first hours in France.

Nora was flattered by the compliments, and said so. If Tess was flirting, that was fine. Still, the jet lag was making her want to do nothing but go back to her studio and sleep. Then Nora reminded herself that she was in Paris. She had been moving through the day and through the city as if she were on a boat being carried along by a magical current that promised new and wonderful experiences if she didn’t fight the flow, so she answered, “Sure, let’s go.”