George Whitman, November 1990 in his dining room, top floor of the Shakespeare & CO bookstore, 37 rue de la bûcherie, Paris, just months after the second floor fire. George hosted dinners at that table most nights of the week. If you were lucky enough to get invited, you had to navigate table settings not washed to the highest of standards, with an abundance of cat hair in the mix. Conversations were never dull. (photo Allen Ginsberg)
Rob Couteau puts it well: A gruff, cantankerous, wiry old proprietor, Whitman identifies himself as an American expat who refuses to fit into any customary mold. Barking commands, hurling invectives, lecturing his fellow Americans about the evils of multinational corporations or the injustices of the legal system (“Justice! There is no justice in America!”), his hodgepodge of erudition and wit can also be charming and benevolent. (One student categorized him as a “charitable misanthrope.”) Providing more than just shelter for young international travelers–many of whom could not otherwise afford a stay, even briefly, in Paris–he’s caused more than one victim of the school system to suddenly appreciate the world of literature. Many arrive just for the free lodging but then, during their visit–sleeping in one of the book-lined rooms or overhearing a passionate exchange between bibliophiles–catch on to the larger dimensions of such unfamiliar terrain. Although most of the more established writers tend to shy away from utilizing the premises because of the chaos, dust, and disorder, the sprawling uncataloged collection serves as an exemplary setting for the young, unformed initiate. (Venice Magazine Sept 1990)
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