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a is for austen； b is for bronte； c is for charles and d is for dickens。 i learned my alphabet in this shop。 my father walking along the shelves； me in his arms； explaining alphabetization at the same time as he taught me to spell。 i learned to write there； too： copying out names and titles onto index cards that are still there in our filing box； thirty years later。 the shop was both my home and my job。 it was a better school for me than school ever was； and afterward it was my own private university。 it was my life。
my father never put a book into my hands and never forbade a look。 instead； he let me roam and graze； making my own more and less appropriate selections。 i read gory tales of historic heroism that nineteenth…century parents thought were suitable for children； and gothic host stories that were surely not； i read accounts of arduous travel through treacherous lands undertaken by spinsters in crinolines； and i ；ad handbooks on decorum and etiquette intended for young ladies of good family； i read books with pictures and books without； books in english； books in french； books in languages i didn’t understand； here i could make up stories in my head on the basis of a handful of guessed…at words。 books。 books。 and books。
at school i kept all this shop reading to myself。 the bits of archaic french i knew from old grammars found their way into my essays； but my teachers took them for spelling mistakes； though they were never able to eradicate them。 sometimes a history lesson would touch upon me of the deep but random seams of knowledge i had accumulated by my haphazard reading in the shop。 charlemagne？ i would think。 what； my charlemagne？ from the shop？ at these times i stayed mum； dumbstruck by the momentary collision of two worlds that were otherwise so entirely apart。
in between reading； i helped my father in his work。 at nine i was allowed to wrap books in brown paper and address them to our more distant clients。 at ten i was permitted to walk these parcels to the post office。 at eleven i relieved my mother of her only job in the shop： the cleaning。 armored in a headscarf and housecoat against the grime； germs and general malignity inherent in “old books；” she used to walk the shelves with her fastidious feather duster； her lips pressed tight and trying not to inhale。 from time to time the feathers would stir up a cloud of imaginary dust； and she recoiled； coughing。 inevitably she snagged her stockings on the crate that； with the predictable malevolence of books； would just happen to be positioned behind her。 i offered to do the dusting。 it was a job she was glad to be rid of； she didn’t need to e out to the bookshop after that。
when i was twelve； father set me looking for lost books。 we designated items lost when they were in stock according to the records but missing from their rightful position on the shelves。 they might have been stolen but； more likely； they had been left in the wrong place by an absentminded browser。 there were seven rooms in the shop； lined floor to ceiling with books； thousands of volumes。
‘and while you’re at it； check the alphabetization；“ father said。
it was a job that would take forever； i wonder now whether he was entirely serious in entrusting it to me。 to tell the truth it hardly mattered； for in undertaking it； it was serious。
it took me a whole summer of mornings； but at the beginning of september； when school started； every lost book had been found； every misplaced volume returned to its home。 not only that； but—and in retrospect； this is the thing that seems important…—my fingers had made contact； albeit briefly； with every book in the shop。
by the time i was in my teens； i was giving my father so much assistance that on quiet afternoons we had little real work to do。 once the morning’s work was done； the new stock shelved； the letters written； once we had eaten our sandwiches by the river and fed the ducks； it was back to the shop to read。
gradually my reading grew less random。 more and more often i found myself meandering on the second floor。 nineteenth…century literature； biography； autobiography； memoirs； diaries and letters。
my father noticed the direction of my reading。 he came home from fairs and sales with books he thought might be interesting for me。 shabby little books； in manuscript mostly； yellowed pages tied with ribbon or string； sometimes handbound。 the ordinary lives of ordinary people。 i did not simply read them。 i devoured them。 though my appetite for food grew frail； my hunger for books was constant。 it was the beginning of my vocation。
i am not a proper biographer。 in fact i am hardly a biographer at all。 or my own pleasure mainly； i have written a number of short biographical studies of insignificant personages from literary history。 my invest has always been in writing biographies of the also…rans： people who lived in the shadow of fame in their own lifetime and who； since their death； have sunk into profound obscurity。 i like to disinter lives tat have been buried in unopened diaries on archive shelves for a hundred years or more。 rekindling breath from memoirs that have been out of print for decades pleases me more than almost anything else。
from time to time one of my subjects is just significant enough to rouse the interest of a local academic publisher； and so i have a small number of publications to my name。 not books。 nothing so grand。 just says really； a few flimsy pages stapled in a paper cover。 one of my essays—“the fraternal muse；” a piece on the landier brothers； jules and edmond； and the diary that they wrote in tandem—caught the eye of a story editor and was included in a hardback collection of essays on writing and the family in the nineteenth century。 it must have been this ay that captured the attention of vida winter； but its presence in the lection is quite misleading。 it sits surrounded by the work of academics and professional writers； just as though i were a proper biographer； when in fact i am only a dilettante； a talented amateur。
lives—dead ones—are just a hobby of mine。 my real work is in the bookshop。 my job is not to sell the books—my father does that—but to look after them。 every so often i take out a volume and read a page or two。 after all； reading is looking after in a manner of speaking。 though they’re not old enough to be valuable for their age alone； nor important enough to be sought after by collectors； my charges are dear to me； even if； as often as not； they are as dull on the inside as on the outside。 no matter how banal the contents； there is always something that touches me。 for someone now dead once thought these words significant enough to write them down。
people disappear when they die。 their voice； their laughter； the warmth of their breath。 their flesh。 eventually their bones。 all living memory of them ceases。 this is both dreadful and natural。 yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation。 for in the books they write they continue to exist。 we can rediscover them。 their humor； their tone of voice； their moods。 through the written word they can anger you or make you happy。 they can fort you。 they can perplex you。 they can alter you。 all this； even