A Novel Bookstore

By Laurence Cossé and Alison Anderson

An erudite mystery that “makes a good argument for literature as a sensual pleasure surpassing even sex and fine wine” (The Washington Post).

Ivan and Francesca decide to open a bookstore devoted solely to good literature and their love of books. Frustrated by the glut of mediocre books printed every month and envisioning a true literary paradise, they offer a selection of literary masterpieces chosen by a top-secret committee of like-minded literary connoisseurs.

To their amazement, after only a few months, their vision proves popular. Very popular. Tucked away in a corner of Paris, the bookstore quickly becomes a haven for bibliophiles. Indeed, it becomes so successful that the great majority of Parisian readers are now buying their books only at Ivan and Francesca’s store, and other stores in the city are starting to change how they order and display books too. Now big publishing’s powerful elite are desperately trying to adapt their business model to the demand for quality above all else. As the store’s success grows, venomous comments begin circulating online and the owners, and their selection committee, become the target of vicious editorials and threats.

A Novel Bookstore blends book love and bookstore love with a brilliantly conceived and entertaining mystery and is a delight for readers of all tastes.

“Marvelous and stimulating.” —San Francisco Chronicle

“A deeply satisfying manifesto of book love and a sharp indictment of those who would use such love for their own evil purposes.” —The Huffington Post

“Packed with sublime, enthusiastic descriptions of reading and literature.” —Minneapolis Star Tribune

“A hymn to fine literature.” —Le Figaro

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 31, 2010
• ISBN: 9781609459161

Laurence Cossé

Laurence Cossé’s A Novel Bookstore (Europa Editions, 2010), her ninth novel and an Indie Bound bestseller, was described by the San Francisco Chronicle as “marvelous and stimulating.” She was a journalist and critic before devoting herself entirely to fiction. She lives in France.

Book preview

PART ONE

1.

One could hardly say that Paul Néon’s disappearance caused a stir in the canton of Biot, where he had apparently settled for good, nor in Les Crêts, the scrawny village where he inhabited the very last house.

Paul collapsed on a thick bed of rotting leaves below the forestry road, along which he must have been staggering for some time already (ten days later, young Jules Reveriaz would find his scarf at the edge of the path, fifty feet from the place where he had fallen). Two or three dead branches cracked beneath his weight. When silence returned, there was a brief moment of vibration. The black leaves, as they were compressed, gave off a rustling sound like the one that water spiders alone can hear when, for example, a cat at the edge of a pond, after peering into the darkness for a few minutes, immobile, his neck outstretched, lies down upon the moss. It was ten o’clock at night. A blurred crescent moon gave off just enough light to be able to make out the path in the dark.

Paul must have let go of his bottle only after his muscles had relaxed, once he had completely lost consciousness and his fingers loosened. It was Suzon who, six days later, found the square-bottomed bottle, empty, a yard from the imprint left by the tall, heavy fifty year old’s body. Suzon had been looking for precisely that sort of clue, and would have given a great deal not to find it. Did Paul pass out the moment he fell, that night of a pale moon, or did he lie there on the ground with his eyes open; did he call out, or say anything, or was he already unable to move even his lips? No one knew the answer, certainly not in Les Crêts. Only later was it confirmed that there had been at least two witnesses—and to call them witness is putting it lightly.

Paul had planned to read the next morning—or, at least, what was left of the morning by the time he normally got started—the two versions of Mina de Vanghel, in order. But who could know that? Van reconstructed Paul’s days only after the fact. Paul had already read Mina de Vanghel, he remembered it well. Stendhal was one of those authors whose entire oeuvre he thought he knew. It was only that autumn, however, when he opened once again the second volume of an old edition of Romans et nouvelles, that he discovered Le Rose et le Vert, and that he realized that this beginning to a novel, even though it was dated seven years later than Mina, was like an introduction to it, and was also unfinished. And on his agenda for that morning of November 8 was his intention to read first Le Rose et le Vert, and then to reread Mina de Vanghel.

Agenda, for want of a better word. Paul Néon had no more of an agenda than he had a schedule, no more of a routine than a healthy diet. Let no one make me say what I have not written, for I did not add: the lucky man.

Perhaps that afternoon, on the ground floor of his chalet—if you could call it that—the phone rang for a particularly long time. And then maybe it rang again, an hour or two later, and met with equal silence? But who could have heard either of those calls?

From time to time a young woman had been seen going up to the chalet. It was often the same young woman, always at the wheel of a cheap little car, often a cherry-colored Twingo, sometimes a black Fiat, more rarely a gray-blue Nissan.

The Twingo, often? Let’s not exaggerate. Once or twice every trimester, the proprietor of L’Alpette would have guessed. Madame Huon at L’Etoile des Alpes would have corrected him: once a month, every month, and always on a Saturday. Madame Antonioz would have confirmed this: the red car on Saturdays, the other ones during the week. Can you imagine?

In my opinion, they were his students, was Madame Huon’s hypothesis. You mean female students, said Madame Antonioz, formerly librarian at the high school in Albertville, now retired and resident in Les Crêts. She was almost certain that Monsieur Néon was a professor at the university in Chambéry. Well, she added, during the week that is.

Because the little woman who came on Saturday, if indeed she came on Saturday, must have been at work during the week. And if she was at work during the week, well then she couldn’t be a student.

The only thing, in fact, that anyone was certain about in Les Crêts, as far as Néon was concerned, was that every Wednesday, no matter the weather or the state of the roads, he’d get his jalopy out of the shed behind his chalet and leave Les Crêts at around ten in the morning, to return only after nightfall.

That’s the way they are, those university professors, said Madame Huon, they work one day a week. One day! echoed Madame Antonioz. You need at least two hours to get to Chambéry. If you take off an hour for lunch, that leaves half a day.

You might conclude from what precedes that the village had its eye on Néon. And yet no one in Les Crêts—neither the proprietor of the seedy café nor these good ladies—had noticed that on the morning of Wednesday, November 9, Paul Néon did not take his car from the shed, he did not head toward the valley, and he had not slept in his bed on the night from Tuesday to Wednesday—nor the previous night, in fact. You can’t really say that people were all that curious. In depopulated Alpine villages, just as in the suburbs of Paris, nowadays it’s every man for himself. Local indiscretion, and the social control which is the other side of the same coin, may seem hard to bear. The fact remains that in the old days when a fellow didn’t get up in the morning, it would be common knowledge by noon in the ten nearest houses, and if he were a bachelor, with graying temples, not inclined to conversation, an awkward customer originally from God knows where, there’d be a neighbor who’d go knock on his door to say something like, You all right, M’sieur Néon? Hey in there! Are you all right in there?

Nothing remotely like that happened on Wednesday, November 9. No one had noticed that Paul had failed to fulfill his sole obligation. The weather had predicted showers. As a result the air was warm; there wouldn’t be any snow just yet. No matter what they said, there wouldn’t be any rain either, opined Alfred from L’Alpette while considering the sky. Dreary, nothing more. He delighted in comparing the forecast from the Dauphiné to the reality before his eyes. Weather reports, said he to Old Mr. Parmentier (who kept to himself the fact that he knew by heart the words that were about to follow), don’t err when it comes to what will happen, but they’re always off the mark when it comes to the here and now. If they say it’s going to rain, well it will rain, but when? This afternoon, tonight? Tomorrow? Day after, maybe? That’s no more reliable than old folks used to be, when they’d consult their joints. I’d reckon it’s even less so.

2.

Anne-Marie Montbrun’s accident was another story altogether. And she was the mother of four children. And generally had two or three more at home. She often had to traipse all over Vauvert after supper because one of them—one of her own kids—was missing. She’d go to give everyone a kiss at bedtime and there would only be three of her four.

A fantastic girl. She looked twenty-five in her tight little jeans and her size 6 Paraboots. Ninety pounds, she weighed, if that, and enough energy to knock you over. Bringing up her kids virtually on her own, with a husband who was a petroleum prospector and spent at most one week a month at home in Vauvert; she was supreme mistress of her domain, her house in the woods, always willing to help out, she’d take her old Renault Espace to go and get a butane bottle for Monsieur Menthaleau, or ferry Madame Ageron to the supermarket, be­cause the old lady couldn’t see anymore but wasn’t about to admit it.

Never in a bad mood, Anne-Marie Montbrun was always on time, so punctual that you could set your clock by her trips in the car, four times a day when school was in session, at eight, half past noon, two, and half past four: four round­trips between Vauvert and Longpré in her old rattletrap, one trip empty, one trip full of kids that she would pick up or drop off here and there, depending on which way she was headed.

So it was a sad day—that Tuesday, November 15—when her car left the road in the wide bend at the top of the hill at Les Galardons; two hundred yards from home, she went hurtling down the slope, and the only reason the car came to a halt before the pond was the good graces of a poplar growing along the bank. Thank God—so to speak—she was alone in her Renault. She was deadheading back to school, just before half past four. There was no reason for her to have gone off the road. It was a gray day, that’s true, and there was a bit of fog lingering on the hills. But Anne-Marie was very sure of herself, she was familiar with all the local roads, and she tended to drive fast. Once or twice she’d been told off by the boys in blue. But they never took it any further. She was a skilled driver, and there wasn’t a family for miles around who would have hesitated to trust her with their kids.

There were no witnesses. There must not be more than ten vehicles a day using the road that leads from the Montbrun house to Les Galardons, and of the ten, eight of them would be trucks from the Rémy Bonnier vineyards on their way to the bottling plant at Saint-Lair. According to the investigation, instead of coming out of the bend, Anne-Marie left the road, for no reason, in the middle of the curve and skidded nose first down the slope as if she really had lost her head, going faster and faster until she finally came to a stop against the poplar tree.

Because she was always so punctual, they were able to establish a time frame for the accident, and she must have spent at most a quarter of an hour unconscious in her beat-up old car. One of the Rémy Bonnier drivers spotted her as he drove up the hill, and he sounded the alarm.

At the school, they hadn’t had time to get worried yet. The Montbrun kids were taken for an after-school snack to the principal’s house, above the school, along with Anthony Fabre and Diane Ottaviani, who normally went home with them. While they were eating their bread and butter in silence—not because they were distressed by any premonitions, but because they were intimidated by the principal—Anne-Marie was removed from her car and transported, inanimate, to the nearest hospital.

It took some time to reach Monsieur Montbrun, who was in a helicopter at the time of the accident, somewhere between Port Arthur and Lagos, but the Fabre family agreed to look after Montbrun children. Arthur Montbrun, from the vantage point of his nine years, nevertheless understood that his mom must be in bad shape, and they had to lie to him quite firmly to get him to go to bed.

3.

At half past eight on Tuesday, November 22, Maïté got a shock. Wearing his thick sweater and slippers, Armel went to get the mail in the letter box by the gate, came back in the house, removed Ouest-France from its plastic envelope, and opened it as he sat down on the sofa by the fireplace. Maïté could not get over it. In the seventeen years they had been living together, every day at half past eight, whether it was raining a little, a lot, or torrentially, Armel had put on his raincoat, opened the door, and, from the threshold, turned to say, See you later, Maï.

On that November 22, Armel folded the paper at nine o’clock and only then did he put on his raincoat and his boots—it was raining fairly hard, that Tuesday—and open the door and say, See you later, darling. Maïté wondered why he had changed his schedule, and why he had offered up that very conventional darling, but she wasn’t worried. Or at least that’s how she put it when she told the story. When someone that anal suddenly throws a wrench into one of their own obsessions, there is a reason for it, that is what she had learned in seventeen years as Armel’s companion. And the very next morning, November 23, and the morning after that, the twenty-fourth, her hypothesis was confirmed. If Armel no longer put on his raincoat at half past eight exactly but at nine, and if instead of reading Ouest-France between nine-thirty and ten when he got back from his walk he read it before his walk between eightthirty and nine, he knew what he was doing, figured Maïté.

But when, on November 25, at nine-fifteen, she said, Are you still here?, because she was walking through the living room getting ready to go out herself to do the shopping, and he replied in a nonchalant way that sounded utterly fake to her that he wouldn’t be going out that day, even though it was almost dry out and, for as long as she had known Armel, she had always heard him insist that he could not get to work in the morning until he’d had his dose of fresh air, she asked him what on earth could have incited him to abandon such a strong conviction, such a steady practice. And he seemed upset, she would say when she told the story. He had given her an evasive reply. Tired, he said, hoarsely. She looked at him. He looked at her. He’s furious, thought Maïté.

She’d got it completely wrong, and would find out soon enough. In fact, he was afraid, she explained. For the first time in his life, he was experiencing fear.

4.

Néon reappeared forty hours later, at a time when, ­ordinarily, he would not be in Les Crêts at all. After lunch, on Wednesday, November 9, a zombie was seen emerging from the forest, at the end of the village, then he dragged himself to L’Alpette. The use of the passive voice here, was seen, should not be seen as referring to a collective, which very frequently replaces the collective we, (as in five hundred were known to have departed), but in a personal sense, less usual and more elegant (the rascal was struck with a cane and his crown was readjusted). The personage behind the passive voice was, to be exact, a single individual, a young woman, who at that hour was very weary—but infinitely less weary than the zombie—the young Mademoiselle Benarbi, commonly known in Les Crêts as the plum, who was using the time while all three children were having their naps and it wasn’t raining to hang out her laundry. There was not a more timid soul in the entire village or even the entire canton than Aisha Benarbi. Deep inside, Aisha was desperate when, on the day after her wedding, her young husband ordered her to give up wearing the veil forever. I am a modern husband, he said. There would be no discussing the matter.

However, when from over the top of her laundry line she saw the ghost zigzagging along the road in the direction of the seedy café, then stop next to the sawn-off tree-trunk bench next to the entrance, and lean first this way, then that, then go into a sort of whirl and nearly miss the bench before finally collapsing onto it, Aisha left her basket of wet sheets right there where she stood, rolled up the collar of her turtleneck in order to hide her chin, at least, pulled together her best French and went over to the ghost to ask, Are you okay?

No, he wasn’t okay. Néon didn’t say as much. It was self-evident. His teeth were chattering. He was the color of plaster beneath his reddish two-day beard. His hair was wet and sticking to his skull, and his clothes were covered in dirt. Aisha touched his wrist. He was burning with fever.

That fever, Dr. Clair would say at a later point in time (he was from Réunion, and he had his office in Moureix), that’s what saved him. It’s not cold just yet, but still.

Néon was carried home (the passive voices belonged this time to Alfred Deneriaz from the café, who had heard Aisha pounding on his shutter, and Marcellin Prot, his father-in-law, and Stevie Perrault, the lumberjack). The door to Néon’s chalet was found unlocked and inside a huge mess was discovered (passive voice, this time: Alfred’s wife, Elisa, young Aisha, Madame Huon, whose grocery was right next to the café-restaurant, and Madame Antonioz, who had seen the group go by her window and had come along). The doctor was sent for (by Madame Huon), and he arrived within the half-hour. Half an hour: a godsend for the ladies, truth be told, giving them the time to go all around the house on the pretext of finding clothes for him and making coffee; the older women, that is, because little Benarbi, after a quick glance around the bachelor pad, all the same, had gone back to work (he may be modern, her husband, but he was still Moroccan). Marcellin remained by the bed where they had laid Néon—the other men had also returned to work—and heard him muttering deliriously, two or three times, the word Mina, and then, quite distinctly, Mina green and pink. He was puzzled. But when he spoke to Madame Huon of his surprise, she immediately understood that Paul Néon was referring to one of his visitors and the color of her eye shadow or her lingerie.

Dr. Clair diagnosed pneumonia. Does the gentleman live alone? he asked, worried. He didn’t like the idea of leaving him unattended. But was it really necessary to send him to the hospital . . .

No one knew whether Néon had any family or close friends (since nowadays, it’s different). No one knew who to contact. No one mentioned the intermittent young women, although everyone had them in mind. The doctor opted for home care, which would mean, he explained, morning and evening visits by the nurse from Villard, Vera Polonowska. As for the doctor himself, he would come back that very evening, and every day thereafter.

Marcellin offered to spend the night in an armchair at the patient’s bedside, when the man himself was heard to bellow, Can’t you fucking leave me in peace? (In this case, you meant more than just you who are present in this room, more than the medical body, more than the women: you meant more or less all of humankind.)

Clair explained to Néon that he was not allowed to leave him without supervision. The deontological-judicial argument must not have sufficed because the neighbors, who had retreated to the back of the room, now heard the doctor say menacingly, In that case, I’ll have you hospitalized. That argument seemed to do the trick and the doctor, while he was organizing the silent retreat of the municipal choir, notified them in a low voice of the outcome of his negotiations. Néon would accept the presence of health professionals, no one else.

Vera Polonowska was a beautiful, haughty blonde. On leaving Néon’s house on the following Saturday at ten o’clock, she found herself face to face with a green-eyed brunette whose expression changed suddenly on seeing her.

He had a good night, said Vera.

Delighted to hear it, said the brunette, furious. One can hardly be more tactful.

You are unaware that Mr. Néon is sick. I’m the nurse who comes by to check on him in the morning and evening. Are you a close relation?

I’m afraid I cannot answer either yes or no to that question. I’ve been wondering, myself, for the last year and a half, and believe me, I’d like nothing better than to know where I stand. What’s the matter with Paul?

I see, said Vera, putting off her reply. You are neither his wife, nor his little sister, nor someone from the village.

None of that, confirmed the little brunette. I played a supporting role in a play he directed two years ago in Vizille.

If I suggested it, would you mind staying with Monsieur Néon? interrupted Vera, who was seeing things more and more clearly.

I dream of it, said the brunette. I’ve never spent more than two or three hours in a row with him. And never at night: he says he can only sleep alone.

Don’t get ideas. He’s not in the greatest of shape.

What’s wrong with him?

Pneumonia, and probably something else.

Is it serious?

It could be. The attending physician is supposed to come some time during the morning. Here’s his card. And here’s mine.

Thanks. My name is Suzon Petitbeurre.

Suzon stayed with Paul until lunchtime on Sunday. A day, a night, and a morning in succession: this had never happened.

But there was nothing particularly pleasurable about those thirty hours. Paul was unwell, mute, in a foul mood. As soon as I’m back on my feet, I’m moving, was all he muttered, on Saturday evening, without any additional commentary.

On Sunday, when Dr. Clair returned to see him at the end of the morning, he figured out what his patient was suffering from, in addition to pneumonia. Néon had turned yellow. The doctor made him jump, palpating his abdomen.

He motioned to Suzon that he wanted to speak to her outside the bedroom.

Does your friend have a fondness for alcohol? he asked her, straight to the point.

For alcohol and for women, but as far as I know, he has a marked preference for alcohol, said Suzon, not without a certain bitterness.

Excuse me a minute, said Clair, taking a phone from his pocket. I can’t leave him here.

Suzon stopped him, placing her hand on his arm.

There are too many things I don’t get. I feel like I’m the only one here who doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. What happened? I went to buy some cheese yesterday and they asked me for news. Everyone in the village seems to know. This is not like Paul.

The doctor told her what they had told him—Néon coming out of the forest at siesta time, staggering along the road, trying in vain to get back up to his house, and collapsing outside L’Alpette—soaking, frozen, burning with fever.

Soaking? insisted Suzon.

Soaking wet and covered in dirt, said Clair. Like someone who’s spent the night out, so the village women said. I mean: outdoors in nature.

Yes, said Suzon. Like someone who can’t find their way home on leaving the bar at night.

Paul had fallen asleep. The doctor dialed a number. He uttered a series of strange words; Suzon got the impression he was speaking Greek.

Maybe Lyon, then? she heard him repeat, in French, finally. Lyon would be better?

He put his phone back in his pocket.

He has to be hospitalized, he said. This sort of thing can suddenly flare up out of control. There’s a large hematology unit in the Hospices de Lyon, the Emergency Services are going to check whether they have room.

His phone rang. Clair made two more phone calls—to the ambulance, and to his wife.

The ambulance is coming, he told Suzon. It will take a quarter of an hour. I’ll wait with you. I’m not sure Monsieur Néon will be very willing to leave with them.

He was silent for ten seconds then continued, in a less professional tone: Did I hear you right, did you say cheese there, earlier? I have to confess, I’m dying of hunger.

It was half past twelve. Suzon and Parfait Clair attacked the beaufort on a small corner of the kitchen table that they’d managed to clear. Hundreds of bottles, empty and full, filled a rack at the back of the room, but neither one of them felt like drinking any wine. Clair, looking at Suzon, decided that plump was one of the most pleasant adjectives he could think of.

Tell me, he asked, what does Monsieur Néon do for a living?

At present, not too much of anything anymore, if I’ve been correctly informed, said Suzon. "You’ll have grasped that I’m not terribly well-informed where Paul is concerned. He’s a very cultured man. He has a certain notoriety among people like himself, under another name, not Néon. Something similar, though. Well, yes, fairly different: Néant. He prefers it. I’ve always seen him introduce himself as Néant. But what he lives on—total mystery. When I met him, two and a half years ago, he was directing a little theatre troupe, in Vizille. He did everything—staging, production, lights, retranslating Shakespeare, writing vitriolic articles for a limited audience. And already people wondered what he lived on.

"We mounted Coriolanus, and it was a flop. I think Paul had obtained a grant and he lost it after the disaster. After that, as far as I know, he started a film club in Val-d’Isère, financed mostly by the town hall. Screenings were held in the village hall. It wasn’t a bad idea, with the crowds you get up there between early December and the end of April. But holidaymakers prefer to see the third-rate blockbuster of the month in a well-heated multiplex. More pleasant for a good nap after a day of skiing, said Paul.

Already at that point he wasn’t exactly the playful sort. He became an out-and-out misanthrope. He crossed theatre and cinema off his list, and came to settle in this hole. To the best of my knowledge, he doesn’t have any income. What I don’t know is how he can pay his rent for this place and pay the milkman too.

She pointed with her chin to the bottle rack. There was another short silence.

It’s not bad, this chalet, said Clair.

You don’t mean that! choked Suzon.

The ambulance arrived and put an end to this new chapter of their discussion.

Paul raged, but it lasted little more than the space of one breath—which produced a strange rattling sound.

I didn’t give you my authorization, he croaked.

I didn’t ask for it, said Parfait Clair, simply, firmly, and decisively.

Paul could not stand on his own feet, which made things easier.

Do I have to go with him to Lyon? asked Suzon, when the stretcher went through the door. To be honest, I didn’t even expect to be in Les Crêts today, I’ve got the week’s bookkeeping to do.

Don’t worry, said Clair. I know the ambulance driver, Alain N’Guyen, very well. He can be trusted. I’ll write it all out very clearly—the hospital, the unit, the name of the physician on duty this afternoon. There won’t be any problems. Monsieur Néon is in no condition to protest, as you can see. It’s not tonight that he’ll start thrashing around. In my opinion, he won’t be on his feet again for ten or fifteen days. I’ll call Lyon at the end of the day to make sure everything’s under control. And I’ll stay in touch, of course. Are you an accountant?

No, said Suzon, an electrician.

Electrician? echoed Clair.

You know what an electrician looks like.

Yes, but I’ve never seen one as pleasant to look at.

What a chauvinist remark! grumbled Suzon.

Have you been an electrician for long? asked Clair.

Nearly ten years. I studied to be a semiologist. A semasiologist, to be exact. But semasiology, to make a living . . . It’s like semiology in general: no jobs, just temp positions paid the minimum wage. I won’t bore you with the various stages of my conversion. It was nothing more than a return to family tradition. My father is in the trade. At age nine, all on my own, I did the wiring in my grandmother’s garage. It hasn’t been too hard to build up a clientele, so long as I’m careful to advertise as S. Petitbeurre, never Suzon.

Once the ambulance and the doctor had left, Suzon went back into the chalet to get her bag and her parka. She turned down the heat, finished the cheese along the way, and, her mouth full, locked the front door twice over. On the threshold she hesitated for a few seconds, motionless, the keys in her hand. Then she walked down to L’Alpette. The café-restaurant was open. She told Elisa, who already knew but acted as if she didn’t, that Paul had just been taken to the hospital, and she anticipated her question by specifying the hospital in Lyon, without going so far as to give the name of the unit.

To forestall any inquiries that Suzon knew would cause her pain, she added, His pneumonia has gotten worse. And she handed the keys to Elisa.

She went back to the chalet, started up her Twingo, then headed down toward the valley. Once she was safely beyond the reach of curious gazes, below the village, she stopped the car, changed her moccasins for some boots, and walked hurriedly into the forest. She knew the path, there was only one. She walked for two hundred yards, went right by the sodden scarf of the man who filled her thoughts, and never even saw it. A few yards further on, at the bottom of the path, she saw the square-bottomed bottle shining in a beam of light and, next to it, the imprint of a human form that she assumed must be Paul’s. There was an odor of cool earth and mushrooms, of outings for retired folk, of tales for children; the air was soft, and yet Suzon was shivering. In an almost conjugal gesture of modesty, holding onto the low branches as she passed, she went to pick up the bottle, noticed that it was empty, and read on the label, White planter’s rum Imperial 40%. She turned around with the object in her hand, then hid it beneath her parka as she left the forest and hurried to her car.

5.

By the morning of the sixteenth, the day after the accident, they were able to tell Arthur Montbrun the truth, since the news was reassuring. His mother had two shattered ribs, her sternum was in pieces, and they had had to operate, because of a pneumothorax. But there would not be any aftereffects. In two weeks she’d be home again. As for his father, he’d be flying in that very evening, to Nantes, and the four Montbrun children would have spent only one night away from home.

What remained inexplicable was why Anne-Marie had gone off the road. The gendarmes spent the two hours immediately after the accident in the bend at Les Galardons and were unable to determine what might have forced the driver off the road.

The asphalt was dry. There were no skid marks or any other helpful clues, pools of oil or cowpats or even any quality droppings from one of those exceptional thoroughbreds that were the glory of the canton.

Could there have been a wild boar crossing the road? ventured police cadet Nicos Hariri, a dark-haired young man who looked so much like Nicolas Sarkozy that everyone got his first name wrong and called him Nicolas.

And why not a seven-year-old stag, while you’re at it? said Colonel de Billepint irritably, for he’d been about to talk about big game the very moment his subordinate did.

The head of the surgery unit where Anne-Marie had been admitted made Billepint wait three days before allowing him to question the accident victim. In her loose white nightgown with its lace collar, her curls spread in a halo across the pillow, the young woman resembled a broken doll. Her husband was by her side. He got to his feet when the police officer arrived. Anne-Marie held him back by the hand: No, stay. I’m not going to be telling the colonel anything other than what I’ve been telling you for the last two days.

The cadet whose name wasn’t Nicolas had not been far off the mark, Billepint had to admit. It was not a wild boar crossing that had caused Anne-Marie’s accident; it was a car, stopped perpendicular to her oncoming vehicle. An empty car, said Anne-Marie. No driver, no passenger, no one standing by it. As I was hurtling down the slope that was what I saw, the only thing in my head: I had seen a phantom car. You may think I’m crazy, but it frightened the hell out of me.

A big saloon car, navy blue or black, said Anne-Marie. A rather old model, probably, something like a Peugeot from fifteen or twenty years ago. But she didn’t want to go any further with the description. Things like that happen in a split second. She was sure of nothing, except that there wasn’t a soul around, either in the car or near it.

While he was walking Billepint back to the elevator, Montbrun confided, I’m not sure my wife has all her wits about her just yet. An empty car, right across the bend—it’s not very plausible. Particularly if the car disappeared immediately and no one saw it at all.

6.

It was a rare thing for Armel to be in a bad mood. Maïté almost asked him, Hey, what’s the matter with you, anyway? But she decided not to be put off by his gloomy air, and to go out as she’d planned, to get a few things for lunch.

What would you like for lunch? she asked him from the threshold, trying to keep her voice cheerful, hoping it might ease the tension.

Don’t give a damn one way or the other, replied Armel.

Maïté was more surprised than hurt. Armel was never vulgar, or only on paper when he had to be, and to a carefully measured degree. Besides, he immediately took back his words.

Forgive me. Get what you want.

Mussels? suggested Maïté.

Yes, that’s a fine idea, mussels, said Armel, automatically. That’s fine, absolutely fine.

That was not like him, either, to repeat himself, mused Maïté as she was waiting

Reviews for A Novel Bookstore

[johngrant1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Broke genius literateur Ivan and exquisitely beautiful and rich heiress Francesca decide to open a bookshop in Paris that will go completely against the grain of a French literary scene dominated by the Gallic corporate equivalents of Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Called Au Bon Roman (the original and much better French title of this book; approx. "The Good Novel"), this store has a stock that eschews all the fifteen-minutes-in-the-limelight bestsellers du jour, focusing instead entirely on novels -- and occasional other books -- that are of lasting literary value, whether classic or recent. The books are chosen by an anonymous committee of discriminating readers whose identities are kept strictly confidential. Only now someone, perhaps enraged by the astonishing success the corporation-thwarting Au Bon Roman is having, has clearly hacked that confidential list, because its member are beginning, one by one, to suffer . . . unfortunate accidents.

This is a moderately dark comedy aimed smack at bibliophile readers like me. The mystery-story aspect doesn't work too well, which is unimportant; the translation limps, sometimes dreadfully, and this matters quite a lot more; but the gentle, quasi-satirical humour and the love of books both come shining through, and for me, as I eagerly devoured this book, that was all that really mattered.

[auntieclio · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Picked up on a whim in a brick and mortar bookstore, based solely on the title and the cover artwork, I was thoroughly charmed by A Novel Bookstore. It’s found a permanent place on my “favorites” booklist.While a love story about fine literature and books, it’s also a mystery and, in its own understated way, a love story. The Great Novel bookstore is conceived by two literature (and book) lovers. Francesca has the wealth to launch such an enterprise, Van has the knowledge to buy and sell the books. Their concept is simple; establish an anonymous committee of eight great authors who select the stock to be sold at The Great Novel.But intolerance, and ignorance, raise their ugly heads. Attempts are made on several of the committee members’ lives, the internet buzzes with irrational critiques and commentary, the French media gets involved. It gets messy, and a bit complicated, as all good plots do. Tragedy occurs and The Great Novel is left to shake itself off and reinvent itself. The overriding question here is, “Who cares what you read and where you buy it?” If you can’t find your favorite mainstream novel in one store, go down the road (or onto the internet) and find it there.This bookstore is a place I wish really existed. At the end of the book, I wanted to put my things in storage, and go to Paris to find the store, befriend the owners and make The Great Novel my hangout. Rarely do books have that kind of emotional impact on me. A Novel Bookstore is thoroughly engaging, charming and entrancing.

[carolynschroeder · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is a difficult book to review, I believe, because it sets out to be many things and on some levels it fails and on others it succeeds. At its core, the story is simply about the opening of a quality bookstore wherein a committee chooses only "good novels" for the stock. This irritates some people, infuriates others and the majority of Parisians found it was just what the future of literature needed. So it was this part I loved the most, how they chose the books, who chose them and what went into the opening and running of the store ~ and then the various wildly divergent reactions to the store. But there is also a mystery of sorts and a few love stories. Those, I felt, were the weakest part of the book. The ending is also just really bad, basically fizzled out; but I cannot say much without spoiling how it plays out. In any event, there are breathtaking and beautiful passages about reading, love of literature/novels and a few about love and friendship. For that and the fable-esque part of the store itself, it was very much worth the read. I think it is just a traditional case of an author trying to take on too many themes in one smallish novel. I do recommend it though, especially for those with a passion of the "good novel."

[alana_leigh_6 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Fans of quality literature and--perhaps more particularly--quality bookstores will undoubtedly be enchanted by Laurence Cossé's A Novel Bookstore. Within its pages, Cossé has created her (and many others') ideal bookstore, entwining its creation with a strange mystery, made more mysterious by the intricate workings of life, love, and what goes in to selecting great novels.The story opens upon confusing and strange circumstances, where individuals connected in some as-yet-unknown-to-the-reader way have suffered minor attacks upon their persons. The aim appears to have been not to take their lives, but to shatter a piece of what defines them. Eventually, we find our way to the more linear understanding of the novel: a rather unique bookstore sells only good novels and a secret committee of selectors (so secret that even they do not know the other members on the committee) is responsible for submitting titles that comprise the stock. With extensive advertising efforts, the bookstore appears to be quite a success -- until a series of vicious attacks in print, online, and finally on the supposedly-secret committee members shows that clearly not everyone is thrilled with a bookstore that seems to define "good" novels. Ivan "Van" Georg is a man who does not appear to have made all that much of his life, but he does know good literature... and those who value literature are drawn to him, appreciating his recommendations and the ability to speak with a kindred spirit. After striking up some conversations with a wealthy customer, Francesca Aldo-Valbelli, Van is suddenly enlisted to assist her on an endeavor to open "The Good Novel," a Parisian bookstore where only good novels will be sold. Together, Francesca and Van go about laying plans for the dream bookstore -- lush, elegant and selective, while still fostering a strong sense of community at the store and online. Francesca and Van select eight modern writers as secret committee members and each person is charged with writing down a list of 600 novels. Each year, they will be asked to submit additional titles so that new books might also have a shot at entering the store's stock. These will be the only titles stocked at The Good Novel; though in return, the secret committee members are sworn to silence regarding their involvement.Francesca goes above and beyond in advertising for the bookstore and immediately it seems to be a hit. Then the grumblings come, which lead to greater issues. Opinion pieces in newspapers asking what right anyone has to exclude certain works from a store. Customers ordering books that the Good Novel does not stock, then failing to pick up the order so the bookstore has to eat the cost. Counter-ads from other bookstores that insist they have books for everyone, not just the elite. Questions buzzing about just who is funding this endeavor. It's hard enough to run a bookstore in the current climate without such bad press (though this buzz doesn't necessarily hurt the sales at the bookstore at first), but then the attacks upon the secret committee members happen. Van and Francesca decide that it's time to come clean with the committee list, go to the police, and recount the whole story. Mixed in to the history of the bookstore (and, indeed, perhaps creating the more emotional, meatier heart of the novel) are the secret histories of Francesca and Van... Francesca cherishing deep grief and hopeless love; Van stumbling in life and passionate about a girl he barely knows. Readers intrigued thus far should hold firm to that interest, for the beginning is a bit dense. I felt a bit daunted by the sudden onslaught of events, French names, and multitude of characters. I even started writing down a character list -- after all, when the authors go by code names to submit their selections and Cossé feels free to refer to them by either name (and they're all vaguely Frenchy), it can get confusing. About fifty pages in, I finally felt like I had my sea legs and never experienced much confusion after that. If anything, the whole mystery is laid out in a rather clear fashion, so it's quite a pleasant ride... until it somewhat peters out. There are many excellent parts to this novel and the entire middle section is a delight... both on the page and off, for it rather stirs within the reader a number of questions about selectivity and the books we feast upon. As a result, it's almost a shame when the ending doesn't have some large finish, but rather a quiet finale... letting us know that being a mystery was perhaps not its main goal. One hopes that Cossé simply wanted readers to think about their book selections and to wonder the same things she wondered... as the reader certainly isn't treated to a grand reveal or any kind of "justice." When it concerns a bookshop, of course, I suppose the best we can all hope for in today's day and age is simply that it stays in business. It's a charming read, quite a credit to Europa Press, which is developing quite an impressive collection of titles. In my local bookstore, this publisher has a spot of honor... and, indeed, any publisher that puts forth an ode to bookstore like this certainly would seem to merit it. I highly encourage all and sundry to read A Novel Bookstore, but be prepared to simply appreciate the random complications for their own sake and not expect too much of the mystery itself. Van and Francesca are, after all, quite sufficient at holding one's interest as we learn more about their lives and driving forces. It's a bittersweet tale at the end, but real book lovers know that bittersweet is by no means a bad thing.

[leperdbunny · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Title: A Novel BookstoreAuthor: Laurence CosseGenre: Mystery, Contemporary Fiction, French Literature# of pages: 424Start date:End date:Borrowed/bought: boughtMy rating of the book, F- [worst] to A [best]: ADescription of the book: A French bookseller and his friend have a dream of opening a bookstore where they only sell good novels. Soon, someone or someones start attacking their private selection committee.Review: If you like Bibliophile literature- you will enjoy this book. Many parts of the prose are Beautiful. I had to read this book slowly just because I enjoyed the bibliophile talk so much! There was a lot of talk about french literature I had no idea about- so I think I'll be going through the book to look for the literature the author was talking about. The ending was so sad- by then I was so emotionally invested in the characters I had to take a breather- definitely turned into a favorite for me.

[booksinthebelfry · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

An appealing conceit -- two misfit souls, out of step with contemporary literary culture, plan and open their ideal bookstore in Paris and are then forced to deal with a sinisterly orchestrated backlash against their "elitist" approach -- but tediously executed (and that's coming from me, a former bookseller who can spend hours happily discussing fixtures and window displays). The story of the inevitable unrequited romance that accompanies the main plot is so elegantly understated and muted that its sad outcome came as a bit of a shock. Equally unsatisfying was the resolution of various other plot strands. Whether you choose to read it as a romance, a mystery, or a literary broadside (all directions in which it seems to head at various points), the overcomplication of this novel works against what appears to have been the simplicity of its conception.

[froxgirl · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

With a slow and confusing start, this novel could easily be shelved, but hang in there, it gets great! Two lovers of great literature meet in a tiny, obscure bookstore in the French Alps and decide to open a bookstore in Paris called The Good Novel. They recruit an anonymous committee of eight authors to recommend six hundred books each for the store's inventory. After a successful opening, the local literati are either thrilled or dismayed to have their works included or ignored, and three members of the committee are subsequently almost murdered. Van and Francesca are the owners, and their closeness is tested by a series of attacks on The Good Novel, by Van's crush on a younger woman, and by Francesca's loss of her daughter to suicide and by the lack of support from her husband. The numerous French authors and their books praised here will be mostly unknown to American readers, but there's the internet to use for searching for the novels in translation, and you can let the booksellers’ reverence for Cormac McCarthy be your guide to their preferences. There's so much to enjoy here, and Francesca is a uniquely memorable woman.Quotes: "In the old days when a fellow didn't get up in the morning, it would be common knowledge by noon in the ten nearest houses.""What I have to offer is not substantial enough for a woman to imagine she could do something with it.""Love at first sight, serenades, trills, and cooing. And then I get completely fed up, it's my fault, full speed reverse."

[jonfaith · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

If nothing else, perhaps we should relegate our emphasis here, this novel engendered an interest in the untranslated canon of contemporary French letters. I harbor considerable doubts whether that was an intention of the translator/publisher. That said, I'm sure many pondered: why isn't this or that author translated into English?

[sarah1e · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

 A Novel Bookstore is not a traditional mystery, or love story, or really quite like anything I've read. The story mixes elements of mystery, romance, and tragedy - the characters are quite important - but the star of this story is the setting. An ideal bookstore, with handpicked selections guaranteed to please the reader. The promise of the books themselves is almost magical: You can't know who picked the books to be on the shelves, but trust us - we, and they, are just like you - we know you'll like any book you pick up in this store. I wanted to go there. I Google Mapped where the bookstore on the rue Dupuytren, Paris would be waiting for me; a centuries-old building on a quiet street. Who would want to destroy such a place? And why? And what must the lives be like of the people who created it? Many personal tragedies and satisfactions, along with what must be the most interesting history of the most interesting bookstore in France are all yours in this book.

[martitia_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The love of literature is at the heart of this French novel. An experienced bookseller and a wealthy woman open a bookstore in Paris. It carries only books considered by a secret committee of writers to be the best books ever published. The philosophical issues about culture and the number of pages dedicated to opening the bookstore will put off some readers. But people who love literature will enjoy the story.

[readingwithtea · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

“We want splendid books ... books that prove to us that love is at work in the world next to evil, right up against it, at times indistinctly, and that it always will be ...”Francesca and Ivan are kindred spirits in search of their perfect bookstore, where Danielle Steel and Dan Brown are nowhere to be seen. Instead, they arrange for eight of France's eminent authors to submit lists of the very best books, and thus a bookstore is born. When it's too successful for their enemies' liking, however, sinister events begin to overshadow their beautiful project.Cossé jumps right into the mystery with three attacks on committee members to open the book; only once the bookstore's proprietors go to the police do we get all the background information. As a result, at the start there are a non-trivial number of people who have little context and their criticality to the progression of the plot is unclear for quite some time. However, by choosing to reveal everything through conversation with the police officer, Cossé neatly gives herself a vehicle for the proprietors/protagonists to interact and converse and add some humour to what could otherwise be a slightly dry (if intellectually stimulating) back-story.There is an occasional first person narrator, which is offputting given the third person omniscient in which most of the book is written. I struggled to figure out who the first person narrator was - and then was quite irritated when I realised it was a person who had been referred to by their name several times in the book in the third person. In addition, there is not enough distinction between Francesca and Ivan; their voices and actions and characters are very similar.A charming enough story; a weak ending and insufficient distinction of characters lets it down. If you like the idea of The Good Novel Bookshop, though, it's worth a read - a serious amount of book chat that's very enjoyable.

[paulagraph · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I'm getting ahead of myself but already know how I feel about this novel. Interesting at first, but over long. Focused on the wrong characters. A bit pretentious. Tediously plotted. Infinitely redundant. Au Bon Roman refers to a literary bookshop opened in Paris by a couple of passionate readers (with complicated love lives, of course). The book list is chosen by a secret group of novelists. The book store comes under vicious attack by way of all types of media, even to the point of bringing bodily & psychological harm to several members of the selection committee. All of which reads as highly implausible, at least to this American reader.

[soylentgreen23 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

'A Novel Bookstore' is a love letter to those of us passionate about good literature. Though it is not necessarily an example of the finest prose that its characters delight in, it is still a wonderful read, and will entertain with its fascinating story.Van and Francesca have an idea - to set up a bookstore that only sells 'Good' novels. But they encounter resistance - claims that they have set themselves up as elites, unelected curators of literary culture... and then the 'attacks' begin on their anonymous consultants.

[vlcraven_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A fun little mystery/fantasy for bibliophiles. I say fantasy because the independent bookstore in the novel is wildly successful (this is not a plot spoiler--it's on the jacket copy), which is so unrealistic as to be laughable. Still, it's great fun.

[richardderus · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Book Report: Well, okay, see, this is a French novel, and it's really, really hard for a Murrikin like me to disentangle what French novels are about, like what the author set out to do, because the French don't really have the same rules we Murrikins do for novel-writing. It seems to be about two people, a rich, smart woman and a poor, smart man, who sorta kinda fall in love in a way and yet they don't because she's married to a major Philistine a-hole and he's in love, for some unfathomable reason, with this dreary little chickie half his age who seems drippy, useless, and uninteresting to *me* and, I suspect, to the rich lady too. So the rich lady does what rich people do best and unbelts with a big pile of gelt for the poor-but-smart dude to start this bookstore that will sell only novels, and only the best, the finest, the most ut of the lit'ry output of the planet, chosen by eight of the best (French) writers now writing. Hijinks ensue, which are frankly completely incredible (in its literal sense), but are lots of fun. What this book is *not* is any species of thriller or mystery; it's a French novel. That's what it is. No more, no less, no different. So, in the end, the Philistine husband and the poor-but-smart dude part ways but the store must go on, and the book's narrator is revealed, though I have to say it's not a huge surprise, though I think it's intended that way. The end, happily ever after but sadder and wiser.My Review: I gave the book a generous 4.1 stars because it's one of those books that, while reading, goes wildly up and down the star scale; but in the end, cover closed, glasses chewed upon, assumes a different shape than the one that the reading process creates.I'd recommend this book to all and sundry if only because of this passage, beautifully translated by the very talented Alison Anderson, on page 150 of the Europa edition:"Literature is a source of pleasure...it is one of the rare inexhaustible joys in life, but it's not only that. It must not be dissociated from reality. Everything is there. That is why I never use the word fiction. Every subtlety in life is material for a book....Have you noticed...that I'm talking about novels? Novels don't contain only exceptional situations, life or death choices, or major ordeals; there are also everyday difficulties, temptations, ordinary disappointments; and, in response, every human attitude, every type of behavior, from the finest to the most wretched. There are books where, as you read, you wonder: What would I have done? It's a question you have to ask yourself. Listen carefully: it is a way to learn to live. There are grown-ups who will say no, literature is not life, that novels teach you nothing. They are wrong. Literature informs, instructs, it prepares you for life."If that passage rings you like the bell you wondered if you might be, then this book will speak to you and shape you a bit differently than you were before; if it seems tediously long, avoid this book like it's got herpes, because you'll hate it.*gooonnnggg* goes my spirit.

[randymetcalfe · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Ivan and Francesca have a dream. They believe in literature, truly great literature, and want to set up a bookstore that caters solely to that end: The Good Novel bookstore. No transient fiction, no genre junk, no latest must-reads as dictated by crass publishers and marketeers. Just good novels, as selected by a secret committee of experts. Who could object to that? It turns out a great many people, virulently and eventually violently. But is it a single angry individual or a co-ordinated group behind the attacks? And is the real target the bookstore itself, the individuals behind it, or the idea of some novels being better than others? Laurence Cossé’s novel may be an honest attempt to write a novel that might get selected for The Good Novel bookstore. Or it may be simply a platform for hectoring the tainted publishing world (but hasn’t that been done repeatedly since the 18th century?). It is certainly an opportunity to orate on the virtues of great literature. And underlying it all is a curious exploration of idealistic love (Francesca for Ivan; Ivan for Anis; all of the protagonists for great literature). The story of The Good Novel bookstore is related through a nested frame, with discordant intrusions by the narrator. It is so uneven that you cannot help but be suspicious of the translation. And the amorous pangs of the diffident main characters are risible. It is all just a bit sad. You may be enticed by the idea of The Good Novel bookstore, but this book will not be on its shelves.

[valnewhope · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Clever concept about opening a bookstore in Paris that carries only "good" novels. A secret committee is formed to select the titles, and intrigue follows as several of these authors, the owners, and the store itself become targets of forces opposed to the perceived elitism of the shop.It was an engaging read, and felt true to the French culture. I felt that it could have been a bit shorter - the middle section dragged a bit, and there were lots of passages listing titles and authors which were probably more relevant to the French audience of the original novel than to readers of the translation. The resolution of the mystery was somewhat disappointing, but it is a worthwhile read.

[bookish59 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A list of Cosse's favorite writers and books disguised as a novel.

[filialibri-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Diese und weitere Rezensionen findet ihr auf meinem Blog Anima Libri - Buchseele

Laurence Cossés „Der Zauber der ersten Seite“ ist eins dieser Bücher, die einfach wunderschön sind. Bis man zur letzten Seite kommt. Denn leider fand ich das Ende dieses ansonsten wirklich starken Romans nur mäßig.

Die Figuren in diesem Roman haben mich von Anfang an in ihren Bann gezogen, sie sind vielschichtig und facettenreich, sympathisch und lebensnah, also einfach wirklich gelungen. Dazu haben sie Humor und faszinierende Ideen, die mich schnell gefesselt haben und den Grundstein für diesen Roman legen.

Und damit für eine, meiner Meinung nach, wirklich gute, spannende und faszinierende Geschichte, in der nicht nur Bücher eine zentrale Rolle spielen und viele gelungene Charaktere auftreten, sondern auch die eine oder andere Leiche.

Ein Kriminalroman ist „Der Zauber der ersten Seite“ jedoch nicht, es ist viel mehr ein wirklich gelungenes Stück Literatur, vielschichtig und gut geschrieben, in einer bildreichen, angenehm zu lesenden Sprache. Nur leider, leider, leider bricht diese wundervolle Geschichte zum Ende hin doch ziemlich zusammen, den der Schluss wirkt leider doch ziemlich konstruiert. Schade!

Trotzdem, alles in allem ist Laurence Cossés „Der Zauber der ersten Seite“ ein wunderschönes Buch, stimmungsvoll und atmosphärisch und aus jedem Wort spricht die Begeisterung für die Welt der Bücher. Nur das Ende ruiniert diesen ansonsten so großartigen Eindruck leider etwas.

[cedartree_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed the language but didn't find it as sublime as corner of the veil.

[samsattler · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Seldom have I had mixed emotions about a book to the degree that I have them about Laurence Cossé’s A Novel Bookstore. I was initially drawn to the novel because it seemed to be a mixture of two of my favorite genres: books about books and crime fiction. And that is exactly what A Novel Bookstore is but, in this case, the two genres do not work particularly well together. Perhaps that is because the dialogue is generally too stilted and otherwise unrealistic to give the crimes in question much teeth. To my ear, these characters are more akin to something from a 1930s romantic farce than they are to 21st century France. They just do not seem real – making me wonder whether the author intended A Novel Bookstore to be more fable than novel.There is, however, much to like here. Anyone who has ever spent much time in a bookstore will be drawn to the concept of a bookstore that only stocks the good stuff. No James Patterson, Dan Brown, or Danielle Steele will be found in a bookstore like the one being designed by Ivan and Francesca. The pair have come together to create a truly novel enterprise, one that sells only the finest world literature ever written. They are so unconcerned about popular demand that it will take at least a year for a new book to hit their shelves – and not many of them will ever make it there.The bookstore’s initial offering will be chosen by a committee of eight specially chosen people, each of whom will be asked to list their favorite 600 books. Even with the overlap in choices, this means that more than three thousand books will be offered for sale on the bookstore’s opening day. The store, despite generating little in the way of profit, soon attracts a loyal group of customers, some of whom browse daily and have to be reminded to leave when it is time for the store to close. Ivan and Francesca are thrilled with what is happening, but the backlash soon begins.Authors and publishers that cannot find their way to A Novel Bookstore’s shelves are not at all happy about being frozen out by such a prestigious bookseller. Attacks, both personal and otherwise, that try to make the owners look like literary snobs, begin to appear in newspapers and magazines. That is bad enough, but the agitation is followed by threats and physical attacks against several of the committee members – a group of eight who were never identified by name even to each other. Obviously, there is a leak somewhere.That is the crux of the story, but what I enjoyed most were the pages devoted to designing the new bookstore and readying it for its opening. Although many of the literary references (especially the French ones) were new to me, the whole process of choosing the best 4,000 books for the store intrigued me to the end. That is what kept me turning pages, and I am happy that I did. A Novel Bookstore is any book-lover’s fantasy and, to be fair to Ms. Cossé, that might be why her characters, including the criminals, do not seem more real than they do. It could never happen…or, could it?Rated at: 3.5

[tadad_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The publicity quotes on the back of this thoroughly enjoyable novel will so mislead."a thriller, a romance, and a fairytale," says Le Figaro. "commentary on the world of contemporary publishing," cries La Croix. "An Agatha Christie-style mystery bolstered by a love story," chimes in Madame Figaro. With the possible exception of "fairytale," all these miss the point. Is there a mystery? Well, yes, but it's a plot vehicle rather than the plot and (quite frankly) never does get resolved all that satisfactorily...certainly not to the standards of M. Poirot or Miss Marple. Is there a romance? Yes, more than one, in fact, and quite well done...but these are really minor threads rounding out the characters rather than defining them. Commentary?...hmm, that's a bit like saying Goodbye, Mr. Chips is a commentary on British public boarding schools—it's there, you can form opinions, but it's not the point.The essence of this story is a paean to the love of reading good books. Ivan and Francesca decide to open a book store, The Good Novel, where you won't find Twilight, anything by Tom Clancy, nor the latest million-selling chick lit. Instead you'll find only great novels, chosen for them by an anonymous panel of some of the best living authors, without regard to publication dates, best seller lists, literary prizes or any criterion beyond the opinion that it is great literature. And therein hangs the tale. The publishers who see 99% of their books rejected and the authors who realize none of their books are represented on the shelves are not happy and a campaign against the store is begun. There is something almost Ayn Rand-ish (without the strong sense of elitism!) about the whole thing except that the reader can discern that it is bruised egos and wallets firing the opposition, not mediocrity.At the beginning, I said that "fairytale" might not quite miss the mark. When I think about the amazing success of the store or about the severity of the reaction, there is more than a bit unreal about it all. However, I don't think it detracts unless you go in looking for a mystery or a commentary. Instead, look for colorful and lovable characters, the author's deep and obvious love for reading, and opportunities to think about a "literary heritage, which is being threatened by forgetfulness and indifference."I'm not sure if A Novel Bookstore would actually make it onto The Good Novel's shelves but I think it would be hard to read this book and not walk away a bit excited and eager for your next good novel.

[jolleyg_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The world of publishing today seems to put profit and saleability above and beyond a book's true worth in terms of promoting a deeper experience for the reader. This book explores the possibility of creating a bookstore that can survive by selling only what is good, as determined by a panel of established authors who also only write good literature. Is this truly possible in today's world. Read the book and find out. I would rate this book higher than I do, but at times the author really gets bogged down in too much detail about the operation of the bookstore, and that gets a little boring.

[ilirwen · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I hated this book and was really happy to finish it. If I hadn't been so stubborn when it comes to finishing every book I've started, I would have given up after a couple of chapters.

[dono421846 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I especially enjoyed the details -- which other reviewers found distracting -- about the management of the bookstore. In such minutia one discovers the choices that must be made to create such an outlet, and thus the opportunities that arise for a bookstore to be as expressive of one's inner life as writing a book can be for an author. In this sense the bookstore is not too different from one's library. Choices must be made, and through those decisions we reveal what we judge to be important. I do wish Cosse had done a better job resolving some of the narrative loose ends.

[cbjames_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is the most pornographic book I've read all year.My definition of pornography is probably different from yours. Pornography offers its viewers a fantasy depiction of something they cannot have, usually a sexual fantasy. At some point in life, one finds that Playboy, or Blueboy, or whatever, has been largely replaced with Architectural Digest-- pictures of beautiful people give way to pictures of beautiful homes. Middle-aged pornography. But at heart, you're still lusting after things you're not going to get. Some readers fantasize about owning a bookstore devoted to the kinds of books they love, especially readers who've never worked in a bookstore like me. (My own fantasy bookstore is called Wuthering Heights Books--it carries a wide range of books, arranged geographically by original language, on a wide range of topics but is best known for it's section devoted to books by and about the Brontes.) Most of us will never work in our fantasy bookstore, let alone own it. Frankly, we're lucky if we're able to shop in it now and then.So, under my definition of the term, A Novel Bookstore by Laurence Cosse is the most pornographic book I've read all year. In the novel's opening scenes, Ivan and Francesca meet in an little known bookstore in an Alpine resort town. Ivan runs the store which he stocks with the novels he admires instead of the current best sellers. While his sales never amount to much, he does develop devoted followings who seek him out in between runs on the ski slopes to ask if he has discovered anyone new they should be reading. When Ivan is eventually fired in favor of someone who will stock best-sellers, he and Francesca, one of his more devoted customers, join forces to open up their dream bookstore, The Good Novel, which will not only sell just novels, it will sell just "good novels." The rest of the book describes how the two set up and run their bookstore in spite of a publishing establishment that is not only against them but apparently willing to resort to violence to stop them if necessary.I don't know if Mr. Cosse has ever worked in a bookstore, but reality is beside the point in A Novel Bookstore. The day to day operation of The Good Novel is of interest because it is a fantasy. We don't care how real bookstores are run; we want to know how our dream bookstore would work. Francesca and Ivan allow Mr. Cosse to give his own book snobbery free reign. The two select a committee of eight authors whom they admire. This committee will operate in secret, the eight do not even know who the other members are, to select 600 novels each. Their combined lists form the initial stock offered for sale at The Good Novel and is added to each year as new books come out and as the committee finds unfamiliar titles they deem worthy. Rival bookstore chains and jilted authors set out to sabotage The Good Novel from the start, but enough readers find the store to make it a hit. That's it's located in Paris helps both the store and the book's readers. Isn't your fantasy bookstore in Paris?A Novel Bookstore is a novel, and there is enough romance and mystery to make up an engaging plot, but I was most interested in the operation of the bookstore. It was nice to find out who really loved who and all, but things like store's initial advertising campaign interested me much more. It's best bit, a full page ad featuring "a background of the type of Restoration painting that is often too hastily described as 'a minor oil': a patch of Roman countryside with a Tilbury briskly trotting by and in it's window you would recognize, if you had any literary background at all, the profile of Stendhal" with the words "All the books no one is talking about" across the front.All right, I'm a bit of a snob, but not enough of one that I didn't have to look up Tilbury. It's a type of carriage with one seat and two large wheels. So, if you're someone drawn to the books "no one is talking about," A Novel Bookstore may bring you more pleasure than a year's subscription to Architectural Digest.

[mooose_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

If you've been looking for a book to expand your reading lists, and who doesn't need to add 3 pages of titles/authors to their TBR list?, then read this book. Although it isn't a book of lists titles and authors are mentioned aplenty. It's about a bookstore which is filled only with books the owners and their committee think should be read. Others call it elitist and can't seem to grasp that they can choose to not enter this particular store. Drama ensues. Love the description of the store and their attitudes towards books, reading and readers.

[esquetee_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Found this on my public library's new book shelf and remembered reading about it in the GoodReads newsletter. Had to stop after about 100 pages -- too pretentious, affected, and silly-but-taking-itself-seriously. Perhaps something was lost in the translation, as they say. I really *wanted* to like it. It's a book about books and booklovers! How could it go so wrong? Oh, but it does. Yes, indeed, it does. The dialogues are stiff, cold, and completely unconvincing. The characters are flat. They story is apparently missing in action. Sadly, I un-recommend the book.

[labfs39 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Do you stand reading in bookstores until you realize you are now late, and the book is half done? Do you find yourself scanning friends' bookshelves surreptitiously, while nodding at small talk? Do you think some books are better than others? If so, you will probably enjoy this book as much as I did. However, if you think there is no such thing as a "great book" or are a publisher or mega-chain bookstore owner, you probably won't.Although this book contains within it a mystery, a couple of love stories, and a bit of otherworldly Chagallishness, mostly it is about people who love books. The catch is that these people don't love just any books, they love good books. Often today's culture celebrates diversity by saying everything is equally good. The consumer should decide for his or her self. Differences in quality or ability are minimized, hidden, or ignored for fear of the e-word: elitism.A Novel Bookstore explores this concept in the world of book publishing, selling, and reviewing. Fed up with the mediocrity and sameness of the mega-bookstores, and even many smaller ones, Ivan and Francesca decide to open the ideal bookstore: one which carries only “good” novels. We are led through their entire planning process. Novels or all fiction? Just classics or also newly released? Only new copies or also used? And above all, who will decide? The bookstore opens with a flourish and attracts both serious readers and the attention of those who stand to lose if some books are deemed better than others.I found the beginning of the book delightful: a celebration of literature wrapped in a fun mystery-love story. But somewhere in the last third, I began to feel as though the author had lost her way. A narrative voice appears from nowhere and is a distraction, the mystery comes bogged down and is never resolved, and the theme of discernment in literature turns to an inditement of large publishers, booksellers, critics, and book prize judges in general. But despite a less than optimal ending, I found the book fun to read and a reminder that it is okay to say, “This is a good book, and this one is not.”