Category: Mr. Amazon’s Bookshop

Mr. Amazon’s Bookshop: Doubts About Amazon

  By
[This is the fifth instalment of Mr. Amazon's Bookshop. A list of all instalments is here; the previous instalment is here.  This instalment was written over the Christmas holiday, well before Belkingate.]

My inability to understand how Amazon worked was the first step in an increasingly tormented relationship with the shop and its owner during the last few months. Two other events pushed me from by early enthusiasm with the peculiar place to a more antagonistic stance. 

First, one of the other bookstores in town closed down. Mr. Babbage's Books with a Difference (Engine) stocked books that dealt particularly with my old hobby – the steam-driven monstrosity I had built in the stables, and with which I had tinkered on the weekends for years. I bumped into him on the street and he complained that the kids these days bought all their books at Amazon's shop. It's a shame – Mr. Babbage had recommended several good books to me when I visited his shop and also given me several tips at times when I got stuck in the construction of my difference engine. I felt that the world of books was a little poorer for his loss.

The second reason was harder to put my finger on. Even though Mr. Amazon was never at a loss for a book to recommend, I was increasingly disappointed at the predictability of his suggestions, and at the limits of his knowledge whenever I ventured into new areas.

He would recite the comments of others but I increasingly felt that he did so with little conviction. He did not know who these others were or why they wrote what they wrote. One day I asked him what he knew of The Secret History by Donna Tartt and he just told me that someone called A Customer had said that "The Secret History has been one of my favorite leisure-reading selections for several years". 


I guffawed. 

He went on to say that "Gary Marfin says it is a very powerful novel and Gary Marfin's real name is, in fact, Gary Marfin." But this told me little – does Gary Marfin have the same refined tastes I do? Unlikely, given that he apparently comes from some place called Sugar Land in Texas: a more un-Whimsley like location I can hardly imagine.

"But what do you think, Amazon, what do you think?" I pestered. All he could come up with was that "329 of 539 customers gave this book five stars" "So what?" I demanded, and actually stamped out of the shop in a huff.

I decided it was time to resolve some of my contradictory impressions about Mr. Amazon's Bookshop. Its virtue is clear – if you know a book he will find it for you. Its limitations are also clear – it is not a real bookshop, for all his postmodernist posturing, and one cannot browse the shelves. For special orders of books Mr. Amazon is impressive, but if I don't go there with a book in mind then all I have to go on are his recommendations. And these, despite the enthusiasm of the young, seemed limited to me. 


My brow was sorely furrowed all the way home. I fed raw rice to the ducks in the park, but could not even raise a chuckle at the thought of their discomfort as it swelled inside them. But as I approached Whimsley Hall and walked past the stables a thought struck me. Just before going out of business Mr. Babbage had told me that Mr. Amazon had a new trick – instead of going to Mr. Amazon's Bookshop, one could use a difference engine to ask him as many questions as you like. Perhaps, I thought, I could tune my difference engine to ask him for all kinds of recommendations, and then I could get a deeper sense of what his shop augured for the world of books. I was so excited I almost started on this project right away, but my stressful excursion had quite worn me out and I retreated instead to my bedroom and a spoonful of laudanum. Next day, I told myself, I would start up my difference engine and ask a few more questions of Mr. Amazon.

Mr. Amazon’s Bookshop: What is a Book?

  By

[This is the fourth instalment of Mr. Amazon's Bookshop. A list of all instalments is here; the previous instalment is here.]

The next day I woke early, Google's suggestion that Mr. Amazon's Bookshop was founded on an illusion still hammering in my head. I decided that this puzzle needed to be solved and, unlike so many ideas that come on the threshold of sleep, my notion from the previous evening still seemed like a filly with legs. After breakfasting on the usual kippers, tea, and toast with ginger marmalade, I dressed and rushed into the village. I ducked into Words Worth and scanned the advertisements in the Literary Review until I found what I wanted: an announcement from Gallup Press promoting a new book entitled "Strengths-Based Leadership". It sounded like the most ridiculous form of business-speaking, self-help-inspired, positive-thinking twaddle, but the announcement brandished a ribbon-like slash across one corner proclaiming "Coming Soon!" with a date about two months hence – and that's all I needed.

I rushed out of the door, strode down the street, and marched into Mr. Amazon's Bookshop. I walked straight up to his desk and stared him in the eye. "Right then Amazon", I said loudly, "I'd like a copy of Strengths-Based Leadership, pronto."

"Certainly sir." He reached down behind his desk again and lifted up a book, "Here it is. Would you like to pre-order it?"

"Aha!" I shouted, pointing at the supposed book. "I've got you! That's not a real book. It's not even published yet. And if that's not a real book, then you're not a real bookshop! You're just a, a…. glorified catalogue!"

"Of course it's a book sir. You can look at the cover, you can order it, and although it may take a little longer to arrive than some other books, it will arrive. If it's not a book, then what could it be? Kippers and toast with ginger marmalade?"

"If it were a book, then I could touch it." I grabbed at it across the desk, but Amazon was too quick for me and pulled it back. "See!" I cried, "it's a trick! I know it's a trick!"

He was unflustered. "Sorry sir, you may not touch the books in our store, but feel free to read the back cover. Or I'll be happy to open it for you to look inside."

I stammered.

"Excuse me sir," he smiled patronizingly at me. "If I may make so bold, you seem to have a very old-fashioned idea of existence. What is a book anyway? Is it a physical lump of ink, paper and glue and card? Or is it the words, the ideas, the tale-well-told? When you buy a book, what is it you are purchasing? Printer's ink and cheap paper, or a connection with the fertile mind of an author?"

"What you think of as a book", he carried on in a patronizing manner, "is simply a replica, a particular physical manifestation of a book. Do you think a mere copy of one manifestation is the original, the archetypal, book? Certainly not – the physical object you so covet is the essence of duplicity; claiming to be a book and yet, in reality, being nothing but a grubby knock-off, a derivative product that supplements the elemental text with what is usually a poorly-chosen font and badly-illustrated covers. The real thing – the authentic book – is in the ether."

"Many would say that books live, not between the covers, but in the conception of their authors – theirs is the heart that beats, the insight that inspires. Even those postmodernists you are so keen on, those who would dismiss authorial intent – even they would claim that a book is the text itself, not its physical manifestation in font and paper. And not only is your precious book itself an illusion but so is your crude idea of some real bookshop from which it is sold. There is nothing, I understand, beyond the text. And I," (did his eyes glisten as he said those words?) "I have the text."

Usually so reserved, I had never seen him display this kind of intensity before and it quite took me aback. I had nothing to say in response. Before I could gather my wits he leant forward: "Let me tell you something, for your ears only", he whispered, "the physical book you love so much is dead. What you see here, delivering books to you by post," (did he sneer at the word "post"?) "this is just the beginning. My shelves are infinite. A book, as you will see, is nothing but a drop of condensation in the Cloud. And I," (Did his teeth twinkle as he smiled?) "I have the Cloud."

"Well then," I riposted bravely, gathering myself together. "If the grubby item you are sending me is not a real book, you won't mind if I don't pay you in this grubby money?" I waved two ten guinea coins under his nose and then put them ostentatiously back in my waistcoat pocket.

"Absolutely not sir. A credit card suits us better."

I spluttered, reduced to inarticulate mumbling, and was about to storm out, feeling that he had got the better of me again, when he spoke yet again.

"May I ask, sir. Do you believe I am real?"

"You? I don't know," I admitted, "I suspect if I reached over the desk you would withdraw yourself quick enough. So how can I know? Tell me then, are you corporeal, or an illusion?"

"I am as real as you are, sir."

"Well that's a relief. At least I know I'm the real thing", I chuckled.

"But you", he continued, "if I may make so bold, are hardly authentic are you? Not very original? Your language is a pale imitation of Sir Henry at Rawlinson End without the wit or the puns, your dress reminds me of Uncle Andrew from A Magician's Nephew, your stick-like knees are nothing but Mervyn Peake's Mr. Flay and I believe I detect a touch of Robert X. Cringely thrown in for good measure."

"I don't need to be original. I'm real."

"I see. How convenient. Please come again. I'm sure you will."

As I stepped into the gloomy summer rain of Whimsley High Street my mind was whirling. At least, it would have been if I hadn't been busy swilling down some bad cognac to slow it down. Is Amazon a real bookshop? Is there such a thing as a real bookshop? Is Mr. Amazon real? Does any of this matter? I had no idea.

Mr. Amazon’s Bookshop: A Conversation with the Butler

  By
[This is the third instalment of Mr. Amazon's Bookshop. A list of all instalments is here.]

No matter how often I went back to Mr. Amazon's shop, I never
could understand its workings. I often hinted to the man behind the
desk that I would like to know, but he ignored me. I even asked him
once in a direct and semi-serious manner: "what do you have down there
behind that desk Amazon? How do you get these books? Is it mole-people,
Amazon? Do you have hoards hordes of mole-people slaving in darkness down
below, running back and forth in some gigantic basement-warehouse
bringing you the books you need?" He smiled vaguely. "Not at all sir.
No mole-people for us. We keep our books in a Cloud." And that obscure
remark was all I could get from him.

Fortunately, there was someone I could always ask when I needed
information, and that was Google, the butler. So one evening in June,
as he brought me my glass of sherry and teaspoon of laudanum, I asked
him what he knew about Amazon
"Amazon sir? Oh yes, I know him well." Google's usually impassive
expression revealed a hint of disdain. "Can't say I like the fellow
very much – a bit big for his own boots if you ask me – but I do find I
often recommend his book shop when people ask me where to get books. He
has a remarkable collection."
"How does he do it Google? He only has one tiny corner shop and
it looks like he has no room to store anything, yet whenever you ask
him about a book he comes up with it. I can't fathom the man."

"One shop? I think not! You don't get out much these days do you
sir? Mr. Amazon has set up shops in every city, town and village I can
think of. And in each one they look the same. A desk, a person, and an
empty room, and yet he produces the books you are looking for when you
ask. Some people say all these stores are connected by a series of
tubes that run from one to another underground, so books can be shipped
from one to another at a moment's notice."

"With mole-people, right! Mole-people with preternaturally strong
forearms pushing trolleys underground from shop to shop! I knew it!"

"Er no, sir. No mole-people that I know of, although you may of course be right… But I do have my own theory."

"And what's that?" I asked, rather deflated at his understated scorn for my idea.
"They aren't books at all. He never lets you touch them, does he?
It's some kind of an illusion. A clever one, but an illusion
nevertheless. It's about as real as that Cloud he talks about. Oh yes,
I've heard that one. Believe me, he has warehouses. Big ones. And
mole-people too, I wouldn't doubt. Almost certainly mole-people."
"You don't like him very much do you, Google?"

"Well, we do cross paths from time to time. Let's just say he doesn't stock my guidebook and leave it at that."

I had to admit, once the laudanum calmed me down, that Google's idea
was more probable than my own. But both were just hypotheses, with no
obvious way of testing them. I was drifting off to sleep, with visions
of smoke and mirrors dancing in my head, when I suddenly realized how I
could put his theory to the test…

Mr. Amazon’s Bookshop: The Appeal of Amazon

  By

[The table of contents for Mr. Amazon's Bookshop is here]

After my previous visit to Mr. Amazon's Bookshop I was furious the whole way home, and wrote the man off as a charletan charlatan. But in a couple of days the book I had ordered (Special Topics in Calamity Physics, if you recall) did arrive with the post. Over the next few days I read it, and thoroughly enjoyed it despite the pretensions of the author (I do have a keen eye for pretentiousness), so my feelings for Mr. Amazon's bookshop were mollified a little.

Mr. Amazon's shop was frustrating, but over time I discovered that it also had an undeniable appeal. If I was shopping for a particular book and couldn't find it, I soon got used to dropping in at the odd little store and asking Mr. Amazon if he had it. And no matter what I asked, whether it was Nigella Lawson's How to Eat or Kieran Healy's Last Best Gifts, he would just reach down behind his desk and come up with the book, holding it up for me to look at. I became accustomed to the no-touch rule. I would have preferred to leaf through the book before buying it, but I'd look at the blurbs on the back, and sometimes he would open up the book so I could see a few pages inside. Then he would take my money, although not before giving one of his recommendations. Usually I would ignore these, but every now and again I would take him up on one. Who could resist a modest suggestion that  "You know sir, some people who bought Last Best Gifts also bought Catherine Waldby's Tissue Economies: Blood, Organs and Cell Lines in Late Capitalism. Would you be interested in that too?" I said yes and he reached down beneath his desk and showed it to me, before putting all the books away again and taking my money.
It is true that I could have ordered these books from any of the other stores in the village, but the ones I ordered from Mr. Amazon did usually arrive quicker and cheaper than the others and I got used to relying on him for those books I needed. I still used the other bookstores if I wanted to browse around but went to Amazon's if I knew what I wanted. 
One day I walked into the shop and noticed that there were a few books lying open on the desk in front of Mr. Amazon. I walked over to them and teased him: "Getting sloppy are we Amazon? Shouldn't these be put away below your desk there?" "Not at all sir" he answered. "I saw you coming and took the liberty of putting out a few books you might like. Would you care to look at these?" And would you know it, I ended up buying one.
I think that visit, almost a year after my first encounter, was when I started to look to Mr. Amazon's store first, rather than using it as a last resort. I'd walk in, go straight up to the desk (oddly enough there was never anyone else in the shop) and see what selection he had put out for me. Usually they weren't any good, but I could always say "Amazon, old chap, do you happen to have …" and he would inevitably reach down behind his desk and produce the very book, usually murmuring something like "Some people who bought this also bought…" and mentioning another book or two.

That was almost two years ago, and I've been a regular customer of Mr. Amazon since then. And I'm far from alone. Mr. Amazon has gained a lot of other fans in the village, especially among the young folk. In fact, they seem to see him as more than just a convenient place to buy books; he's become something of a hero to them. Somehow Mr. Amazon, neatly pressed shirts and all, has gained a reputation as a bit of a rebel, and we all know there's nothing like a streak of the maverick to make youngsters turn their heads.

The first time I noticed this admiration was last spring, as the snow melted to leave the familiar spring-time odour of dog turds on every corner. I was out in the park putting out my usual batch of arsenic-laced sausages to dissuade the villagers from letting their curs roam free, when I heard the scamps on the way home from their schoolhouse, boisterously boasting about what they were going to do when they grew up. "No crappy old publisher is going to stand between my novel and its audience!" I heard one young Jane Austen exclaim, as she kicked her chum affectionately in the groin, "Mr. Amazon's going to tell the whole world about it." "Yeah. Don't you just hate publishers? Damn those gatekeepers. But elitist institutions won't hold the new generation back!" countered her pal as he picked himself up off the ground. "Right!" said a third, "Mass media is so over. Who needs it when Mr. Amazon is on your side?" I smiled at their japes, watching as they ripped the sleeves off the jacket of a hapless and chubby twelve-year-old, smirking at him: "Look at you now, you're just like Random House. 'armless!" 

Ah, such idealism! It took me right back to being pelted with stones by that Blemings lad as I scrambled across the rocks under the weir on the way home from school. Happy days!

Their enthusiasm was winning. Could it be, I wondered, that Mr. Amazon was going to open a new world of literature ahead of us? That the balance of power had tilted and that the author, the primary creative force, who I must admit has been so long unfairly neglected by the establishment publishing houses in the big cities of the world, finally had the upper hand? Could those authors (and don't forget the charming authoresses!), with the tyranny of the old world left behind, usher in a new world of variety and diversity? Oh, I did so hope it might be so!

But if Mr. Amazon was the key to a new culture, how did he manage it? Try as I might, I could not guess how the little man could always reach to find just the book I asked for. And how had he, a rather prim and proper middle-aged man with none of the attractive whiff of dissipation I possess, gained the attention and even affection of the Scruffiest Generation? I decided that, in fairness to those village shopkeepers I had frequented for years, I should put my hopes of a brave new world on hold until I knew what was going on…

Mr. Amazon’s Bookshop: First Visits

  By

[The table of contents for Mr. Amazon's Bookshop is here]

Whimsley Hall is never a salubrious place, but in the days
following Christmas it is truly disgusting. Mice chase spiders, earwigs
and silverfish over the piles of discarded plates and glasses that are
the inevitable aftermath of the annual party I throw for the villagers.
The children have played their last game of Pin the Tail on the Vicar,
and have vanished, thank God. I am sure some of the greedy little
bastards steal my silverware; I know that the older children use Hide
and Seek as an excuse to search through my erotica collection. And
their parents are worse; they pretend to be friendly but I know they
are only after the contents of my cellar, and to a one they seem to
have a huge capacity for drink and other forms of debauchery. But they
too are finally gone. People think I am fortunate, living in this
picturesque and rambling manor, but the duties of the landed gentry are
not easily shirked, and so year after year I spend the days between
Christmas and New Year's sitting at my desk with aching head and foul
breath. Usually I spend these days reading a book, but this year I do
not have a single one that takes my fancy. The reason is simple: I
refuse to buy my books from a certain popular bookshop in town. Small
wonder that as I sit, my mind is wandering back to a similar
post-Christmas event a few years ago...

I had decided, that day, to walk from Whimsley Hall down into the
village. I hoped that the unseasonably fresh air would clean away my
own hangover and would also get me away from the Hall while the
servants cleaned away the bacchanalian refuse. I would willingly help
them of course, but their nature is coarser than mine so it only makes
sense to leave them to it.

I am a regular visitor to each of the village book shops and I
wanted to pick up a novel or two. We had a lot of bookstores in
Whimsley village until recently. One specialized in mysteries, one in
politics, one in books about my hobby (Mr. Babbage's Books with a Difference (Engine)), and there were a couple of second hand stores as well. Then there's Words Worth the general bookstore and Heather's Big House O'Books, a
big but crass place I avoid when I can, but with an undeniably good
selection. And if I'm in a hurry for a page-turner I can always pick up
a best seller at the supermarket (you didn't think we had a supermarket
did you? Oh yes, we're up to date in Whimsley village). So we were well
provided for. I really didn't think there was room for another book
shop, but I had heard from Google – my butler and the source of a
remarkable range of odd facts and fancies – of a new shop in town
called Mr. Amazon's Bookshop and I decided, being the open-minded chap I am, to give it a try.

Google had told me that Mr. Amazon has the most amazing selection
of books, so you can imagine how surprised I was when I walked in the
door. Mr. Amazon is famous now, so you probably know what his shop
looks like, but in case you haven't been there let me tell you. The
door is unprepossessing. Once inside there's a bare wooden floor. No
books, no shelves. It's always empty of people. There are a couple of
posters on the wall, and a short, trim middle-aged man, dressed smartly
but informally, sits straight-backed behind a high desk. That first day
I shook my umbrella to hide my confusion and nearly turned to leave,
but then I thought it would be rude just to walk out so I asked him a
question.

"Excuse me, I seem to have stepped into the wrong place. I thought this was a book shop."

"It is," said the man behind the desk. "And a very fine one I'm proud to say."

Was the man mad? I squinted at him though my monocle but he looked
calm enough. I gestured at the empty room and addressed him again.

"Well, most bookshops have – you know – books. You don't seem to have any at all! There's not a single shelf in sight!"

"On the contrary sir, we have the finest collection of books in the
village. We are aware of all books, we just don't have shelves. Is
there one you would like to see?"

"Not one in particular, I just thought I'd look around – see what
you specialize in, you know. See what your collection's like. But, I've
just realized I'm late for… something – got to be going. Toodle pip!"

I turned to leave, but he spoke before I got out of the door.

"We are aware of all books sir. Any book you like, we have it. Is there one you would like to see?"

His words were so peculiar I decided that the butler was playing a
trick on me. He'd sent me here to see this batty little man as a joke.
Obviously the proprietor was touched in the head. I just shook my head
and exited.


I forgot all about Mr. Amazon's bookshop for a couple of months, and
then an odd circumstance found me making a second visit. My plumber, a
retired scholar, is a regular source of book recommendations. When I
ask her how she can stand dealing with the contents of Whimsley Hall's
bathrooms after studying Shakespeare's sonnets she just looks at me and
shakes her head and says "it's a long time since you were at a
university isn't it?" Anyway, she had told me about a new novel called Special Topics in Calamity Physics,
which was apparently a hit in America and which both she and her
husband had enjoyed. I'd been to a couple of the bookshops in the
village but they both said they hadn't got it yet. Disappointed, I was
on my way home when I realized I was walking right by Mr. Amazon's
Bookshop. Truth to tell, I was surprised to see it still there. "Maybe
it's actually got some books now", I thought as I walked in through the
door. And I was confronted with the empty, hardwood-floored room and
that funny little man sitting pertly behind his desk, just as before.

"Still no books I see?"

"On the contrary sir," he said. "We are aware of all books, we just don't have shelves. Is there one you would like to see?"

The man was obviously run by clockwork or mad as a hatter, but I thought I'd amuse myself a little.

"Well actually there is. I'm looking for Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl. It's new and the other shops don't have it yet. Maybe you could point me to it?"

I confess I smiled a little as I turned theatrically around, as if
scanning the shelves. But quick as a kingfisher the little man reached
under his desk, brought out a book, and held it out in front of him.
"Ah yes, a fine choice. Here it is. Two hundred and sixty four of our
customers have told us about this book, and 149 gave it more than three
stars out of five. Take a look."

I stepped forward and reached for the book, but he pulled it away.

"Sorry sir, you may not touch the books in our store, but feel free
to read the back cover as I hold it. Or I'll be happy to open it for
you to look inside."

I was surprised and a little offended, but at least he had the book.

"Never mind, I'll take it", I muttered, putting a few guineas on the desk. 

"Thank you sir. Good Day." And with that he put the book back beneath the desk.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" I said sharply. "My book?"

"No sir. We deliver our books. You will receive yours shortly. Good day. By the way, customers who bought Special Topics in Calamity Physics also bought The Secret History by Donna Tartt and Absurdistan by Gary Shteyngart. Would you be interested?"


"I should think not! Just see to it that my book is delivered, that's all." And I stamped out furiously, cursing the difficulty of getting good service these days.

Mr. Amazon’s Bookshop

  By

An unfinished seasonal confection from Whimsley Hall, in a dozen or so episodes. This post will be updated with links to each installment as I post them. Expect roughly one per week, starting today.

And if you read on, remember the motto of the Whimsley family: "Pay little, expect less."

  1. First Visits
  2. The Appeal of Amazon
  3. A Conversation with the Butler
  4. What is a Book?
  5. Doubts About Amazon   
  6. The Differ 
  7. Down with Gatekeepers!
  8. Mr. Amazon's Shelves 
  9. Kylie Returns
  10. Another Conversation with Google
  11. Recommending the Big Sellers
  12. Where is Kylie?
  13. The French Lieutenant's Bookshop?