The Death of Shakespeare. . .

. . . and Company.

I have become as shameless as a newspaper with my headings.

George Whitman, the venerable owner of Shakespeare and Company (pt. ii) has died.  He was ninety-eight years old (N.Y. Times article).

The legend will grow to myth, I assume.  "Back in the day. . . ."  I met George a couple of times in the '80s on various trips to Paris.  I sought him and his bookstore out, for I was enamored of all things bohemian and Parisian for a long while.  The 1920's especially.  I wanted to touch the history.  So I was practically breathless when I found the bookstore nestled there humbly just off the Seine.

And I'm sorry to say, it was underwhelming.

The store itself was a musty wreck with old and mildewed books lying everywhere in what appeared to be unorganized piles.  I'm sure old George knew what they were and where they were going, but for a casual customer like myself, it seemed chaotic.  It was crowded and full of the people you might expect.  George was awfully approachable but just as prickly.  He was not a man who inspired me to offer a hug.  One of the first things he said to me was that he was just a scribbler.  When he excused himself from our conversation, that is what he said.  "You must excuse me, but I must go and do some scribbling."  It was, I thought, too pretentiously cute and worn.

I knew that if he liked you, he would let you board there for a time, and I had gone hoping to do just that, to sleep in the famous Shakespeare and Company with the great names of the past, but the place itself disabused me of the idea.  I was staying in a low-rent, dirty hotel on the left bank, but this would have been several steps down from there.  And really and truly, I've stayed in some very bad dives.

Still, it feels as if something has changed with old George's death.  The world needs illusionists and dreamers, even if they are only figments.  He has a daughter who is now minding the store.  I have an urge to go and meet her.  I have great hopes.  She was an infant when I was there.  Surely she will be one of the most interesting and beautiful women in Paris by now.  She will be like Gabrielle the antique dealer who loves the music of Cole Porter in Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris."  Certainly it will be true.

I have convinced myself this morning that I must go and meet her.  Yes, yes. . . destiny awaits me.

*     *     *     Later That Same Day     *     *     *

OH MY GOD!  SHE IS!

Read here and here.  Truly, I loved her father.  He was one of the great romantics of our time, a truly heroic figure.  I will tell her.