In Search of Reads

If you've ever been living indefinitely in a foreign country without work and without too many friends, you've probably spent a lot of solitary hours alone reading a good book in your native language instead of attempting the daunting task of learning the language of the land in which you're residing. (Sorry, fellow grammarians, that was a super duper run-on sentence. Another result of living in a foreign country--total linguistic regression.)

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In other words, I've been reading a lot. What I call my Reads-In-Progress are the selected short stories of Anton Chekhov, an anthology of Lewis Carroll's letters, The Ghost Trio by Linda Bierds, The Hidden Reality by Brian Greene, Che: A Revolutionary Life by Jon Lee Anderson, Harry Potter auf Deutsch, and finally, my most recent capture, Murakami's Sputnik Sweetheart. 

That's a lot of books. But I pile my reads upon a metaphorical lazy Susan and alternate what I read depending on what mood I happen to be in. For the past month, I've been in a South American revolutionary mood, hence Anderson's 800-page biography of Che. (Which, if you can believe it, I actually finished last night, notes included. I call that masochistic dedication.)

Prague was gloomy today (surprise surprise) and I was in a literature-browsing mood. I took a bus and then a tram to Prague's Lesser Quarter, Mala Strana, where the imposing green dome of St. Nicholas cathedral thrusts above the other meeker church steeples. Passing the entrance to Charles Bridge, where hordes of tourists were whipping out their cameras and maps, and stopping to listen to a one-man band (see image 1), I hurried across the cobbles and into a comfy street that lead away from the crazy hubbub (see image 2).

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A German couple stopped to ask me where the John Lennon wall was, and I told them keep going straight, then turn right somewhere and maybe a left somewhere. They were thankful for my instruction but I felt useless, and I almost walked with them to find it, because in the smaller streets and alleys of Prague I know directions better by the feel than by the route. I kept walking, stopping to take a picture or two, and finally found myself dead-ended into my destination: Shakespeare and Sons Books (see image 3).

This bookstore has a cozy, old-timey feel, with a slightly cramped layout. There's no lack of literature, no matter if you're searching for the latest J.K. Rowling novel (Casual Vacancy, a book I am urgently waiting to read till I can get it used and cheaper) or just the many volumes of Marx's Das Kapital. You become instantly swept in by the layers of the rooms and the colorful titles on the shelves. My first eye-catch was the selection of Murakami's works, all of which looked good enough to steal (I'd gladly trudge to jail with his complete works bulging in my coat pockets).

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The real magic, however, occurs downstairs. As you step down 600-year-old winding stone stairs, you hear gentle music coming from some hidden speakers, and enter into a vast cavern-like browsing chamber. Besides books in English, you can also find French, German, Spanish, and Russian books. I scanned the philosophy section excitedly, picking out works dealing with the transcendence of the human ego. Unsurprisingly, my attention didn't last long, and I moved on to fiction, where I read bits of Alice Walker and John Irving. I then moseyed into my favorite room, a quiet reading study with windows opened to a secret water channel flowing off the Vltava river (see image 4). On one of the walls sits a bookcase full of antique books of all sorts, which are under lock and key. A while ago I'd bought a 1940s publication of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. A true treasure trove.

This is the perfect spot to sit and read for hours, and you won't be bothered by anyone except for the rare browser. The atmosphere begs for meditation and reflection, the ideal place for immersing yourself in a fictional or nonfictional world. There's even an old typewriter on display--how romantic is that?

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Shakespeare and Sons is also a great place to meet other Americans and English-speakers, if you're feeling extra lonely. The only way it could get any better is if they added on a small kavarna, a coffee shop. But, alas, sometimes searching for reads doesn't have to involve consumables.

A few hours later, after I'd contemplated purchasing the poetry of William Carlos Williams and the autobiography of Charlie Chaplin, I finally settled on Murakami's Sputnik Sweetheart, simply because the main character sounded so eerily similar to myself. So far, thirty pages into the book, I'm greatly satisfied with my choice, and highly recommend Murakami to any reader in search of easy to understand yet magically transcendental writing.

If you're ever in Prague, make sure to take a detour to Shakespeare and Sons, where you can find almost any book you could possibly want. And literary classics like James Joyce and Flaubert are only 85 crowns, about $4! You won't find that in just any big chain bookshop.

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(The magical basement chambers)