In the depths of winter, i wandered along the Left Bank and found tucked away near Notre Dame, a gem of an english bookshop.
I had a chat with the guy manning the till, and he told me it was founded in 1951 and that aspiring writers could stay there above the bookshop and write to their hearts' content.
The place was crammed with English books, both new & used. Everywhere you turned, there were books. I must have stayed there for 2 hours, just reading and browsing.
Up the rickety stairs I go & we come to the smoky reading room. All the books are wonderfully old and not for sale, only for reading.
Happy bookworm. Being in the presence of books makes one very happy i think. I don't think I could ever be friends with someone who didn't like to read.
A little dark alcove where you can sit & type out letters.
And for those looking for a little respite, a wonderfully worn bed/sofa where you could sit & read or write. Heaven, isn't it?
And of course, a piping hot earl grey in my favourite tea-room in Paris, while relishing my books. Bliss xxx
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