HOME | UP |
John Dunton Not too long ago a friend told me about an evening he
spent in a pub with some young poets. One of them had recently had a
collection published and it had been reviewed in the TLS. The poet spent
the whole time wanting to discuss in detail what the review had said and
why, and she clearly had little interest in any conversation that might
revolve around books generally or anything else other than her own work.
My own experience over the years is that this is sadly typical. These days
I don't mix much with poets and I don't care to, and some of the best
conversations about books and writers that I've had have been with
publishers and printers and booksellers. And it occurs to me that these
people have often done far more for literature than any number of minor
poets with yet more mediocre books that simply add to the catalogue of
mostly-unread publications. I was put in mind of this when I read an obituary of
Barry Hall. I wonder how many poets will know who he was? For the record,
he was behind Goliard Press, which, in the 1960s, printed and published
books by Elaine Feinstein, Charles Olson, Aram Saroyan, and others. Hall
wasn't only publishing books, he was helping to bring work by the people
mentioned to the attention of an insular British audience. He had spent a
year in San Francisco in the early-1960s and as a consequence was friendly
with many of the poets and painters identified with the San Francisco
Renaissance. He didn't only print for Goliard, he produced books for
Bernard Stone's Turret Press and Stuart Montgomery's Fulcrum Press,
including the first edition of Basil Bunting's Briggflatts. Later in the 1960s, Goliard operated under the Jonathan
Cape Umbrella as Cape Goliard, with Hall including Neruda, Ginsberg, Paul
Blackburn, and Gael Turnbull in his list. I recall with pleasure a
beautiful edition of Ginsberg's T.V.Baby Poems, and well-produced
editions of Turnbull's Scantlings and John Wieners' Nerves.
I don't suppose the young poet obsessed with her review in the TLS will
have heard of most of these writers, but they were and remain well worth
reading. Hall obviously loved their work and getting it into print wasn't
simply a job for him. Like many of his kind, when he thought that he'd
done what he'd set out to do he walked out, went to America again, and
then to Kenya, where he died in October, 1995. I mentioned that Hall produced books for Bernard Stone,
and I am reminded of the many times I've browsed in the various bookshops
he had over the years. I say "had" because he sadly closed down
his operations, ill-health and the massive costs of running a specialist
shop in Central London finally combining to defeat him. He had a shop in
Kensington Church Walk in the early-1970s, moved to Floral Street in
Covent Garden, then to Lamb's Conduit Street, and finally to Great Queen
Street. I think I have the sequence right. But wherever he was the shop
was always open house to writers, publishers, little magazine editors, and
others, and Bernard was never slow to open a bottle of wine or pour out a
glass of vodka, no matter what the hour. He was always also good for a
conversation about books. He had readings in his shops and they were
sometimes near-riotous affairs, with drunken poets sliding down piles of
books and Bernard watching it all with an amused eye. His shop was stocked
with small press publications, little magazines, and off-beat editions,
not to mention some rare old books. He published poets, too, in his Turret
series, and I wonder if he ever got the thanks he deserved? Too many poets
often take the view that editors and publishers are there for their
benefit. A friend who edited a magazine once asked a poet he'd published
if he'd approach a bookshop in his area to see if they'd stock the
magazine. The poet was indignant and refused on the grounds that he was a
creator and it certainly wasn't his job to do the dirty business of
selling the magazine. Bernard Stone wasn't the only one who tried to make
bookselling more than a mere commercial occupation, and Barry Miles for a
time ran Better Books in Charing Cross Road as an outpost of the small
press and little magazine movement of the 1960s until the owners (Zwemmer's)
got tired of the low profits and the high level of oddball characters
hanging around the place. He then opened up Indica Books in Southampton
Row and that was an equally exciting location to pick up the latest books
and magazines from American and British presses, as well as material
linked to the historical continuity of modernism. It's curious how so many
of today's young poets have little or no real awareness of this continuity
and instead work mostly within a British (sometimes even just English)
framework. Indica became famous as the "underground" scene of
the 1960s developed and the newspaper-format International Time moved the
spotlight away from literary concerns. The pop hordes moved in with, to my
mind, disastrous results, though Indica continued to be a shop worth
visiting. Compendium Books opened up in the late-1960s, with the
indefatigable Nick Kimberley ensuring that its stock of poetry and
avant-garde writing was always up-to-date. There simply wasn't anywhere
else carrying such a range of material for those who didn't think that the
mainline bookshops had it all. Kimberley opened up his own shop, Duck
Soup, in a little alley off Red Lion Square and tried to maintain it as
somewhere to obtain the unusual. I'm just pulling out memories, of course,
when naming these shops, and there were others. And I'm also concentrating
on places I personally visited from around 1960 onwards. Someone ought to
write a book about the famous bookshops which have, over the years, acted
as centres for literary activities. A few, such as Sylvia Beach's
Shakespeare and Company in Paris and Lawrence Ferlinghetti's City Lights
in San Francisco, have become well-known through being identified with
specific groups. Shakespeare and Company was home to the 1920s expatriates
like Hemingway and Robert McAlmon and will always be associated with the
original publication of Joyce's Ulysses. Ferlinghetti's shop, which
opened in the 1950s, attracted the San Francisco writers, including the
Beats, and also became the centre for the City Lights publications, which
included Ginsberg's Howl But what about David Archer's shop in
Parton Street, London, which, in the 1930s, was where the young British
modernists gathered? George Barker, David Gascoyne, Charles Madge, and
Dylan Thomas, met there, and the shop acted as a base for Roger Roughton's
surrealist-influenced magazine, Contemporary Poetry and Prose. Archer is a
virtually-forgotten figure now, mentioned only in memoirs of the 1930s and
the Soho bohemia of the 1940s, but he did the essential work of running a
bookshop when it was needed and helping to get new writers into print. I could go on listing. What about George Whitman's
rambling Shakespeare and Company (same name but not the same location as
Sylvia Beach's shop)? But I think of so many which, selling new books, or
second-hand books, or a mixture, have provided what I think of as one of
the essentials of a civilised life. I was recently introduced to someone
working in Waterstone's and his name stirred a faint memory of the Trent
Bookshop in Nottingham, shortlived, I seem to recall, but somewhere to
find poetry and experimental literature, and at some point in the 1960s,
they ran a weekend festival at which Roy Fisher, Jon Silkin, G.S. Fraser,
Jonathan Williams, and many more, appeared. The man who effected this
introduction was Geoffrey Clifton, who had a fine theatre and cinema
bookshop in Manchester which was the haunt of writers and actors and
academics. You could talk to him about books and what was in them. His
shop closed when the local council decided to increase the rent by 100%,
this at a time when they were supposedly promoting the city as home for a
Year of Drama and around the corner from the threatened bookshop were some
well-furnished offices staffed by smooth bureaucrats engaged in the
process. It seemed typical of the times to close down an excellent
specialist bookshop while pumping more money into an ever-expanding
bureaucracy. Bill Butler had a bookshop in Brighton many years ago and
got himself prosecuted by the local police, who took exception to some of
the modern literature he stocked though nearby shops openly displayed
racks of girlie-magazines. Another bookseller, Larry Wallrich, who then
had a first-rate second-hand shop near the British Museum, published a
large collection of poems and prose to raise funds for Butler's defence
and got contributions from Michael Hamburger, Thorn Gunn, Ginsberg,
Ferlinghetti, and a number of other contemporary writers. Despite the
support the case broke Butler's back as a bookseller and he closed down,
which is presumably what the authorities wanted. It's easier to turn a
blind eye to pornography than it is to tolerate the unusual. As for Larry
Wallrich, who had been at the Phoenix Bookshop in New York when it was a
centre for poets, he later moved to Toronto and carried on his trade
there. Larry was a great friend of Jim Lowell, who opened the Asphodel
Bookshop in Cleveland in the 1960s and pushed not only the local poets but
also the work of British and American moderns generally. In 1988, the 25th
anniversary of Lowell's start in the bookselling trade, a number of
American writers, including Robert Creeley, got together to publish a
tribute to him, something too few poets do for those who promote their
work. But then as a poet once said to me, and without a trace of irony in
his voice, "when I'm famous you'll be able to say that you helped me
get started." I prefer the Jim Lowells of this world. He still
continues in business, though with a mail-order catalogue and, if you can
get to his house in rural Ohio, a one-time garage packed with shelves of
great books from past and present. The names continue to roll. Harold Briggs, who ran a
bookshop in New York called Books 'n' Things, and had been around since
the 1920s, supporting himself in the depths of the Depression by hunting
down second-hand books in obscure places, and who was an expert on little
magazines, avant-garde presses, and literary criticism. He had himself
published poems in magazines and they showed how he had an awareness of
what went on in the world and not just in his own head. As his friend
Harry Roskolenko, who also appeared in avant-garde and left-wing
publications, said much later: "Harold and I hated every aspect of
fascism, in and out of books. Today, using a more contemporary form of
rhetoric-in-action, there are poets who salute it, unconsciously, in their
mindlessness and malice." When Briggs died, around 1970, an editor
named Marvin Malone produced an issue of The Wormwood Review mostly about
him, knowing that people like Briggs had made a contribution to
literature, not only as poets but as booksellers or whatever. Malone is
the kind of editor who does know these things. Another issue of his
magazine was devoted to Jon Edgar Webb, a writer, editor, and publisher,
who, in the 1960s, brought out The Outsider from New Orleans,
labouring with a hand press and producing three issues before he and his
equally-dedicated wife, Louise 'Gypsy Lou' Webb had to leave town and move
to Arizona, where they published a beautifully-designed double-issue which
was largely concerned with the work of Kenneth Patchen. The Webbs also
published a book by Charles Bukowski at a time when other publishers
didn't want to know about him. They were old-style bohemians with a love
of traditional jazz and modernist verse and suffered ill-health, poverty,
and other mishaps, while publishing The Outsider. A note in the
final issue tells how they pawned everything, apart from the printing
press, a table, two chairs, and a bed, to raise money for the magazine.
It's a world away from poetry competitions and those poets who calculate
everything in terms of how they'll benefit from it. But I'm moving into a world of little magazine editors and that requires a separate article. In this one I wanted to mention Barry Hall and then talk about a few bookshops, though there have been other printer/publishers whose activities need to be documented. The bookshops, and the people who ran them, are rarely, if ever, remembered, and over the years they've provided me with more pleasure and interest than most other activities. In a world where they are increasingly under threat from indifference, commercial pressures, and changing fashions in taste, they ought to be treasured. Browsing around the shelves, finding something of value (and I don't mean that in a financial sense), and perhaps having a conversation with the bookseller, strikes me as much more satisfying than listening to the self-centred complaints of a poet whose work will probably be forgotten in five years time.
|