The Albion Beatnik Bookstore website (or how a bookshop once changed a light bulb)

The web page of the Albion Beatnik Bookstore in Oxford, now closed (as usual) for business: muses and misspills on books, jazz, poetry, stuff like false flags and smoke screen: was randomly decrepit and proven to be more than neo-bankrupt: it was so analogue it was anal and now deceased.

Things that Annoy Booksellers, part 1

Odd that as the Kindle and the computer are so efficient – I am told we no longer need books or paper – that any bog standard academic these days has to walk around with a rucksack inflated with ‘stuff’ so that it becomes the size of one of Goliath’s testicles. These people (incredibly even those old enough to know better!) ricochet around my shop, knocking over anything within five metres of their wobbling incoherence.

What’s inside their rucksacks ffs? Distress flares? Supply of Kendal Mint Cake in case there is a Bodleian lock-in? Aesthetically they resemble a draped rodent; militarily they represent an assault vehicle, a battalion of marksman and a fleet of tanks as they invade my space (the average rucksack and coat when deposited at random on a shop floor is the equivalent of several hectares of land grab); psychologically they suggest needless attachment to ‘clobber’; emotionally, of course, they represent insecurity.

Schulz, creator of the Peanuts cartoon strip: “Linus, my serious side, is the house intellectual, bright, well-informed which, I suppose may contribute to his feelings of insecurity.” That’s it: rucksacks stuffed full of security blankets. And very protective of them you lot are, you ramshackle, needy lot. Just saying


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This entry was posted on 7th December 2016 by in bookselling and tagged , , , , .

News of Albion Beatnik Press

Two new series of titles – American Vintage and British Vintage – 24 titles to be published in 2019

Sarah Gillespie’s Queen Ithaca Blues

“Dipped in song, these are dizzying poems in which lovers are skyscrapers and words walk on wires between them.Bright with horror and stricken with laughter, Sarah Gillespie’s lyrical collection lives in the extremities, dealing with loss, vertigo and joy.” – Caroline Bird


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