Long time ago, the list price of the book acknowledged each and every single creative input in the bookselling eco-system. It paid authors, publishers, editors, graphic designers, paper mills, truck drivers, printers, warehouses, distributers, booksellers, you name it.

Today, the list price has totally lost its meaning and has mutated into a mere concept. It is a very useful psychological tool in the hands of online retailers and a heavy burden around the necks of independents.

Things started to go wrong with the arrival of corporate capital. Small, low profit publishing enterprises merged into giant media behemoths. Bookstores grouped into chains. In order to win more customers and increase their turnovers, bookstore chains started to sell lead titles at heavy discounts.

Emerging online retailers took it even further. They make money by losing money. It is beyond the realm of my understanding.

Especially now, with the disappearance of the real (books), the business model for a small independent bookshop is irretrievably lost. Even with ethical consumption, author events, reduced prices, aggressive social media presence, local community support, what am I forgetting? – It is either not going to work or it is going to be very difficult.

I remember this customer, some five years ago. He bought a book, expressed compliments and engaged in a short conversation. When he heard that this is how I plan to support my family he told me I was insane. He was well acquainted with the local book-related realities.

I thought my insanity will shine and provide a power source for Behemot’s lighthouse. And it did. For a while. For this I thank you sincerely.

However, times have changed. Perplexed by obvious benefits of online ordering, pressed by harsh realities of recession, the local community finds it ever more difficult to support our small, independent bookshop. Behemot (the physical container of it) will close. Not this week. Not this month. But soon enough to think about it.

Here is a little true story from Prague. It stayed with me through all these years and still works within me, changing me slowly – like a worm in the wood.

It happened in the rainy summer of 2002. One-hundred-year flood devastated the city and affected lives of hundreds of thousands of people. For a few months sales fluctuated between none and very slow. We kept our opening hours like nothing had happened, but seldom did we sell a book or two. It was a very difficult time of spooky emptiness.

I was at home one afternoon and suddenly wondered how they were doing at the bookshop. So I called.

The telephone rang.

Denis was a philosopher of mixed Greek and Czech origins. He worked part time with us. He had that rare gift to hear things not yet spoken and see things not yet seen.

The phone rang.

Our telephones at the time didn’t have that incoming number display. So he couldn’t tell it was me who’s calling. And usually we answered our phone with the name of the bookshop followed by a “hello” or our first name. I would say “Anagram bookshop, Dean”. You know, the usual boring stuff. But Denis was unique.

The phone rang. He answered: “Továrna na sny, dobry den!”

He picked it from the thin air, right there, right then. But his message was clear: the bookshop he worked at could very well be described as a “Factory for Dreams”.

Thank you for sharing our dreams for the past six and a half years. Maybe we’ll meet again, perhaps in another dream.

Books. The bound volumes with ink on paper. You cannot turn them off with a switch. Tell your kids.

via Book Patrol

For those that didn’t read the book – sorry, I can’t help you – Behemot is a semi-human-cat-demon-trickster character from Bulgakov’s Master and Margarita. It is the friendly beasts within.

And this is how Behemot bookshop looked like on Sunday (imagine all the fun of cleaning up in the evening):

Tap, tap.. click, click.. Tap! Click? Huh? I’ve read this twice and liked it both times. He quotes Thoreau and Unabomber. He mentions books that we stock and sell. Love his van.

I owe my livelihood to technology and I love the raw capability it offers us as a tool, but I fear it a bit more than most people do. It’s a tool, but it’s not quite a hammer, because a hammer doesn’t seduce you into sitting around lonely in your underwear for 6 hours at a stretch clicking on youtube videos and refreshing Twitter. I fear technology because I fear that bad feeling I get after a three day XBox binge I go through every year around the holidays. I fear technology not because I think it’s evil, but because it’s too easy to start clicking and never stop, even if the stream of data starts to go from meaningful to useless after the top 5%.

via Kottke

I am not really into l’art pour l’art escapades of interior designers. Just as sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, shelves tend to be just shelves for most of the times. I might be an old fart but I do believe that the ultimate bookshop experience is given by its books and nothing more. Period. You can add a flower vase here or a picture there, but it all starts and ends there, with books.

Nevertheless, I jumped into my dream-body and took a little stroll around these most beautiful bookshops in the world.

It looks quite cozy and dreamy here in Atlantis bookshop on Santorini, in Greece. It seems light-years away from Syntagma Square. That suitcase looks very good. And the cat. I wonder if those old Karelia cigarettes still taste the same. It suddenly strikes me that this could be one of those Town of Cats places. So I move on, while it is still possible.

Paris is my next destination. And the very famus, legendary Shakes in Paris. The original was founded by Sylvia Beach between the World Wars. She had to close after she refused to sell her last copy of Joyce’s Finnegans Wake to a German officer. George Whitman opened in 1951 and soon became a legend. They were very good friends with Sylvia. Among other things he is famous for suggesting a good read by throwing a book from the third floor right on top of your head. Curiously, people still find bookshops relaxed, cozy places. Maybe one should rather wear a helmet.

Before I go on with the FlavorWire list – I would like to add couple of my own favorites. I already talked about Un Regard Moderne in Paris. So we move on to New York and Brazenhead Books.

Brazenhead Books is a secret bookshop. Please, process these words once again, really slowly: a secret bookshop. Voila! Not so long ago, Michael Seidenberg used to have a fairly normal antiquarian bookshop in Brooklyn, New York. Among many others, Jonathan Lethem used to work there. The usual shit happened and he had to close. Now he operates a secret bookshop on the appointment-only basis.

You might argue that there’s nothing particularly beautiful about a street bookseller. Yes, I agree. Now take a look at this guy who eleven years ago occupied a parking spot in upper Manhattan – and he hasn’t moved since. Charles Mysak is beautiful. And he has stories to tell. He also has tons of parking tickets and has been towed away, but he still manages to hold on to his spot.

By now you already see the thread. Here is my personal favorite from the FlavorWire list. I wish I could speak Mandarin. Yes, it’s true – the number of books seems oddly low. Everything else is just as it should be – very curious and suggestive. I wonder what kind of exchange is really taking place there. They don’t have that many books to sell. It looks like a good train station for dreams. Maybe they sell tickets. Certain details look like Joseph Beuys was a family friend. You open a drawer and keep a secret.

I would like to conclude this hyper-stroll through bookshops with a visit to a home of Anthony Pisano. It’s not even a bookshop. It’s home. It’s strange, beautiful and wonderful. It is a place. What changes an empty space into a place? Before and after – there’s nothing – vacancies to rent. It takes a lot of energy and a lots of love – to build a place out of an empty space.

(many thanks to Natalya and Rok)