Andrew Wheeler visits London's latest claim to literary fame; Waterstone's Piccadilly.
There was an interview on television about a new bookshop in London. Ken Follett, one of a hundred interchangeable authors of airport penny dreadfuls, was drumming out the bookshop's party line with such efficiency that he must have been up all night memorising the press release. The bookshop is part of the Waterstone's chain, and they were calling it the biggest bookshop in Europe, with seven floors and over six miles of books. Being the sort of boy whose parents always described him as bookish, this sounded like heaven to me. I listened a little more intently.
Ken Follett was wittering on about how friendly and welcoming the new store was. He had inadvertently started answering a question which the interviewer - clearly working from the same script - had not yet managed to ask. Dutifully, she asked it anyway;
"Don't you think people prefer small, intimate bookshops with dust on the shelves?" she asked. I had my own answer prepared, but Follett bravely improvised onwards, talking about diversity and accessibility and the homely smell of fresh coffee. At some point in the exchange, one of them (it barely matters which) described the store as "several specialist bookstores all in one building". That was all I needed to hear. I grabbed my coat and umbrella and headed off to the commercial hell that is Piccadilly.
My optimism was fixed firmly in my mind. The biggest bookshop in Europe? Seven floors of books that would stretch six miles end to end? Several specialist bookstores all in one building? The selection of graphic novels was sure to be impressive.
Bookshops - and I hardly need to retread this hoary old argument, but for the sake of completeness I shall - are notoriously poor servants to the comic book industry. Their stock tend to be dismally poor, and are usually hidden away in dark little corners behind the sci-fi. Everything is arranged in alphabetical order by author, as if "graphic novel" were a genre all to itself - an iniquity which they would never dare foist upon books about history or art. There is no publicity, no support, and no emphasis. In the paradise of the bookshop, graphic novels are forced to fend for themselves.
Of course, I was hoping that Waterstone's Piccadilly would be different. Of course, I was wrong.
Up on the first floor, 'Graphic Novels' had been allotted the side shelves of one bookshelf, marked 'Horror' on one side and 'Crime' on the other. Sci-fi was spitting distance away. The top shelf carried about three copies of the huge Superman Masterpiece Edition. Below that was a shelf filled with copies of a fantasy art collection, which surely belonged somewhere in the art department, and not among the novels. The remaining four shelves were only half full, and carried all the usual 'literate' fair that bookshops don't feel too ashamed about displaying; Raymond Briggs and Maus, and a half dozen adaptations of Shakespeare. There were comics based on Terry Pratchett, on James Herbert, and even on computer games. There was a sparse scattering of Miller and Gaiman, and some strange Japanese books that might have been ordered by dint of typo. All the rest was bare wood.
In a state of high dudgeon, I waylaid a shop assistant and asked her to explain this shoddy display. She at least had the dignity to look ashamed. "We do have more stock, but there wasn't time to put it all out," she told me. "There's a big box in the store room. I've seen it myself. It's probably big enough to fill the rest of the shelf."
The rest of the shelf. If they could find the time, the biggest bookshop in Europe was willing to dedicate a whole eight foot by two foot shelf to one of the great narrative arts of the twentieth century. It was the same amount of space given to Tolkien, Thomas Harris' Hannibal, or the Harry Potter books. In fact, it was the same amount of space given to the section on wedding etiquette, and at least that shelf was fully stocked.
One might argue that I'm being too harsh on Waterstone's for neglecting this corner of literature. After all, they might consider graphic novels too risky a venture. That argument is, of course, nonsense. The store's own publicity commits it to "the widest range of titles". They aspire to be the greatest bookshop in the world. If a vast chain like Waterstone's cannot take a chance on graphic novels, who will? The store is willing to give over space to exhibitions of photography and painting, to live music and strange performance art; yet when it comes to an art form that actually comes in books, the bookshop gives it little more space than the aquarium.
In all fairness, the rest of the store impressed me enormously. There was a remarkably cheap Internet cafe, and a restaurant serving Chablis and lobster salad. There was a studio lounge, where I could drink a cold beer and get a good view of Parliament. There were books. There were hundreds of books. There were so many books that I barely knew where turn. To clinch the deal, it was probably the only bookshop I would ever visit where I could sit on a cowhide chaise longue and suck sugar cubes. It was a marvellous bookshop.
Or rather, it could be. As near as I could tell, a sensible selection of graphic novels was the only thing it lacked. On my way out, I took a quick look at the store directory. The section was not even listed.
On the other hand, there was a magnetic poetry board. I searched in vain for the words 'graphic', 'novel' and 'selection'. Sadly, I couldn't even find the words 'your' or 'sucks'. I left under a cloud. It might be the greatest bookshop in the world, but it still needs to go that extra mile.
 |
 |
 |
|
Pop Preview - Grendel: Past Prime Talkback:
|
||
 |
|
 |
Relevant Links
Waterstones on-line