Sylvia Beach: One Bad Ass Bibliophile
Paris. Welcome to 12 Rue de L’Odeon: The Shakespeare & Co. Bookshop. Good day, Sylvia. Who are you looking at over there? Oh, is that your lover Adrienne waving to you from her french bookshop across the street? Is it alright if I bring my friends in to show them around? Wonderful. Hello, Mr. Joyce. How’s your eyesight? Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I like your bow tie. Now, everybody watch your step. Isn’t it cozy in here? Along with the classics, Sylvia has collected all of the current literary journals and novels fresh off the press. If you don’t have the money to buy them, don’t worry, she’ll let you borrow. And if you ever find yourself without a bed, there’s a cot in back. Think of Sylvia as the patron saint of expat writers. Shakespeare & Co. is a home away from home.
Between the time Shakespeare & Co. opened in 1919 and closed during the German occupation, Sylvia’s little bookshop had become the American literary hotspot of the world. Ernest Hemingway: check. F. Scott Fitzgerald: check. Thornton Wilder: yep. Ezra Pound: duh. I paid homage to 12 Rue de L’Odeon many summers ago. Despite all the stories these walls could tell, the only thing signifying the bookshop ever existed is a little plaque: En 1922, dans cette maison, Mlle. Sylvia Beach publia ULYSSES de James Joyce. Sylvia, you were the only one with the brains and balls to publish the so-called smut (or most important novel of the 20th century), even though it nearly bankrupted you. Civilization thanks you.
Also, of note: Sylvia Beach and the Lost Generation, by Noel Riley Fitch
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