T H E B O O K S H O PB y K y l e L e G r a n g eI always think it wrong for a bookshop to smell anything other than an intoxicating mix of cofee and must and vinegar and four and dust and something sweet you cant quite put a name to. Ive a copy, old, falling apart, yellowing, of Alices Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass printed in the 60s that smells just like a bookshop should. Its warm and comforting and inviting. A place to while away the hours. The book and shop. As pastimes go, bookshops are a regular for me. Sometimes I walk out with a book or two, clutched feverishly in my hands. Sometimes not; just a frenzied heartbeat. Stories can do that to you, even if youre only in close proximity. Maybe thats just me. Maybe its not. Theres something about stepping into a bookshop. Its tense and nerve-making, dread and excitement pooling in your stomach. Like walking up to someone you fancy and asking him out. Its the precipice. The unknown. The hush of everything heart, wind, birds, voices in your head before you bungee jump. And its good. Its so good. Addictive almost. Dread, excitement, fear, joy, terror, elation. Theres something about that volatile cocktail of hormones and emotions rushing, coursing, speeding through your veins; it makes fools, heroes, adventurers, actors, lovers, murderers of us. You can taste it, feel it at the tips of your fngers, hear it in the hush of the between the shelves, see it in the lazily dancing motes of dust: story imposes itself in a bookshop. Universal truths, fctions, despicable lies, wishful thinking, empty boasting, awesome tragedies. This is their home. And they cluster, swarm here. They make you seem lesser, greater, terrible, and nothing in such dazzling synchrony, such joyous contiguity. Its like Sondheim; far too much good stuf vying for your attention. See me, feel me, hear me, read me. And then you leave. And its as though youve been holding your breath. Apprehension? Guilt? Bitterness? Felicity? And hes said yes. And now you can breathe again. And youve still got that tingling, bubbling, futtering in your stomach. But it makes you smile, laugh, act the fool, play God.And breathe . . .