“MY OWN books I packed up in cases and sat on them, or dined on them. Books in a colony play a different part in your existence from what they do in Europe; there is a whole part in your existence where they alone take charge of; and on this account, according to their quality, you feel more grateful, or more indignant with them, than you will ever do in civilised countries.”
This passage toward the end of Karen Blixens’ classic book Out Of Africa struck a strong personal chord:
Paris in the winter of 1970 was a cold, uninviting, and lonely place. My arrival at the Gare Du Nord on October 20 was greeted with sheets of sleet, oblique darkness, and a marked indifference. The first meeting with the university professor was a disaster during which I was told I could neither write nor speak French but as I was a scholarship holder (God only knew how I earned it ) he was going to have to tolerate me. Like the Lone Ranger, a close friend already living in Paris found me a room seven floors up a back stairs with one cold tap and a communal toilet down the corridor.
Coming from a warm and happy family background, this was a major culture shock, recovery from which was slow and painful. Books became my only companions and every spare moment I had was spent haunting the myriad second hand bookshops then to be found in the Sixth Arrondissement and the bouquinists that were lined along the Seine.
As my self confidence grew, I came to know where to buy quality paperbacks for a franc or two and the cafés where one could sit reading for an hour or two over a cup of coffee without drawing the attention or the ire of the propriétaire.
As my research, my professor having at this stage come to terms with my poor credentials - was based on the works of Guy De Maupassant, the books of his contemporaries became of special interest, particularly the novels of Émile Zola, specifically the 20 novels that comprised the Rougon–Macquart family saga.
Gradually, I managed to acquire each of the 20 volumes some for as little as 50c and none for more than two francs. Given that in 1970 there were 12 francs to the pound the whole set cost me something between £2/3 pounds. Never were £3 better spent.
Not only did the books provide me with wonderful entertainment they also improved my French. Zola’s descriptive powers and attention to detail are legendary. He also tells a wonderful story. During that first lonely year they were a godsend and they became my constant companions as I was rarely without one in my pocket.
A few weeks before I returned to Galway for the summer break, my mother came to Paris for a week’s holiday. Inevitably, our days together had a literary emphasis, a highlight being the visit to that famous bookshop Shakespeare and Company during which the owner George Whitman, having discovered who mother was, tried to sell her some white mice that were running around in a small cage placed on his desk.
At one stage, we found ourselves looking at a display on the pavement outside a bookshop on the Boulevard St Michel where everything was at sale price. Among the treasures that were there was a six volume pristine set of the L’Intégrale Seuil edition of Rougon–Macquart that contained not only the text of the novels but also an extensive introduction, biographical details, copious background notes, and was profusely illustrated.
My heart jumped and I inveigled mother to buy them for me. This she was more than willing to do until the bookseller refused to give her bookseller’s discount. There then ensued something of a Mexican stand-off between them until my entreaties persuaded her to buy the set for 120F.
The books now sit proudly on our bookshelves. They are rarely if ever opened. However, every time I look at them, I am firmly back in 1970 and reliving those extraordinary nine months which were to play such a vital role in my life.
