Bookshop Sleepover in Berlin

I got quite excited when I first read this a moment ago, and then I remembered that I'm too old to sleep on the floor. But maybe you're not, so...

They're having a sleepover at the Buchbox bookshop on Helmholtzplatz. They list a number of highlights that you might actually be able to get without sleeping on the floor, such as talking to a bookseller, drinking wine and eating Flammkuchen. But Isabel Bogdan tried it out a couple of years ago and thoroughly enjoyed the experience, and then that company that is ruining Berlin ran a similar thing at Waterstones in London after a tourist got locked in overnight, so who knows.

It's free, but there is of course a drawback. You have to belong to a thing that calls itself "Yelp Elite" and claims that "it's chic to be elite". I have no idea what this thing is, either because I'm too old to sleep on the floor, or because I don't agree that it's chic to be elite. Very possibly both. If, however, you would like to spend a night sleeping on the floor in the company of people who think it's chic to be elite, you could always sign up very quickly to the Buchbox newsletter via their website, which offers you a chance to win a ticket without signing up to Yelp Elite. Good luck to you.

So, So Sad about Ocelot

I'm really, really sad. My favourite ever bookshop is closing down in mid-March. Ocelot on Brunnenstraße is a beautiful big space full of well chosen books. They also sell coffee and really good cake. They host events and cooperate with a radio station and they run a blog and sell print and e-books online. They have quirky things like a sofa by the YA titles and a weird Japanese cube made of glass and electricity. Like all German bookshops, they will order any book you like and it will be there the next day. They will be really helpful and friendly about it too, and if you're me they'll ask you your name and you'll start spelling it and then they'll say, "Oh, right, I know!" If you're not on first-name terms already, that is.

You can go in with a friend and wander around for a very long time, recommending books for his dad's birthday present. And there'll be lots of good ones to choose from, of course. You can go in after two generous Mai Thais on their long night of book shopping before Christmas, and be too drunk to buy anything but have a really nice time just admiring the really expensive titles. Or you can go there to sit at the long table and drink a Diet Coke and talk to a journalist who's writing your friend's obituary. If your book happens to be mentioned in the London Review of Books you can tell them and they'll lend you their copy, because they're just sweet like that. You can pop in on a Saturday and run into a friend and tell her what a stinking bad mood you're in and feel instantly slightly better. Or you might run into a local writer looking at the recommendations, who will discourage you from buying anything because it's all rubbish, apparently, not like his books. You might go in there once with a friend and then find they're stocking her book in the YA section at a later date, and when you tell her she'll be really pleased. They might even ask you to moderate a reading by a top British writer, and then either they or the publisher will buy you a Wiener Schnitzel afterwards.

I wasn't sure whether to write anything; it feels a little tactless after their campaign to Save the Ocelot. And I know all us Ocelot fans had been hoping the Christmas season would pull them back out of insolvency. I think it went well; just not well enough. I think there was a miscalculation somewhere along the line, as there will almost inevitably be when you do something big and brave like opening a gorgeous bookshop in a large space. And it makes me sad that this ambitious project, which has captured hearts and minds and launched a million style pieces, hasn't managed to stay afloat. I know that's not for lack of enthusiasm.

I feel sort of pleased to have experienced this place, a book shop the way I think book shops ought to be, never patronising to its customers, always welcoming and involved with the publishing and literary world, a place to feel comfortable about loving books but never anonymous. I can't imagine there'll be anything to match up with it any time soon. The insolvency administrator is hopeful someone will buy the place outright and continue to run it. I sincerely hope so. If you happen to be rich, you should really think about it. If I was rich I know I would.

Saving the ocelot

My favourite local bookshop has gone into insolvency. I've only written about the place once, which is odd because I go there a lot. It's an ambitious project – a smartly designed bricks-and-mortar store with an outstanding selection of titles, apparently excellent coffee, events, a blog, and an online store of its own. I'm talking about ocelot on Brunnenstraße, obviously. Owner Frithjof Klepp set out to make his shop stand out, and he bet big. That design didn't come cheap, and nor did the custom-made online shop. Unfortunately, it seems that extra costs for the website and unforeseen sickness pay blew the budget.

But this wouldn't be Berlin if insolvency were a genuine nail in the coffin of culture. Look at the Suhrkamp publishing house, which opened insolvency proceedings in May of last year and is still going strong. Even the city's new airport is bankrupt before the first plane has ever landed there. Unlike BER, Klepp does have a business plan. ocelot will continue trading and is looking for investors.

If you're in Berlin, the best way to support this excellent bookshop is to go in and buy books. This coming Saturday there are two special projects going on, though – this is a place with a lot of loyal fans. One plan is a flashmob: you can print out an ocelot mask and meet like-minded book-lovers across the road at 4 p.m. to descend on the shop and prowl around, before buying a book. If you're not the kind of person who likes to wear animal masks on public thoroughfares, you can also just turn up at any time on Saturday, get your picture taken and uploaded to this as-yet empty site in support of the place (and presumably buy a book). They explain it better on this Facebook event page.

If you're not in Berlin but you are in Germany and you like ordering books online, you can use their website to do so, with free delivery. And I believe they're planning to add international deliveries at some point – which would be an excellent way to get hold of German books when you live outside the German-speaking world, don't you agree?

It seems a little odd that so many people would rally around one particular bookshop when all of them have it tough. It feels like favouritism, in a way. But I have to say that ocelot is a very special bookshop and it would hurt if it had to close down. Maybe it's the enthusiasm the place radiates, the love it seems to give back. Pop in and buy a book, why don't you? Every little helps.

Indie Book Day 2014

Last year, a German independent publisher invented Indie Book Day, or Indiebookday as it's called in German. This year, it's going international.

The idea is pleasantly simple. All you do is buy a book from an independent publisher on 22 March (preferably in an independent bookshop). Then you post a picture of the book, the cover or yourself with the book (or whatever you like) on a social network (like Facebook, Twitter, Google+) or on your blog, using the hashtag "#indiebookday".

The plan got off to a very good start in 2013, gaining plenty of attention within Germany. Newspapers reported in advance, bookshops made special displays, and there was a lot of Twitter action. And there's really no reason why it shouldn't work internationally, what with the cross-border reach of social networks. So do join me on 22 March for Indie Book Day. Or indeed Indiebookday.  

Berlin Book Issue

The December issue of Exberliner magazine ("Berlin in English since 2002") is about books, although it doesn't include any reviews. There is a feature on "publishing heroes" though, profiling the literary agent Karin Graf, bookseller Frithjof Klepp, me, e-publisher Nikola Richter, nano-publisher Amanda DeMarco and literary connector Sharmaine Lovegrove. I would like an embroidery of the phrase "publishing hero" to hang on my kitchen wall.

The magazine is available from newsagents and bookshops in Berlin.

German Chainstores and Indies and Dialogue

Nothing is happening in the world of German books. It's freezing cold here and everyone's brains have died over Easter. So I've dredged the German-speaking internet for something to recycle. Here's the vaguely amusing thing I've found:

An MDR exposé on bookstore chains that "recommend" books of the month. Complete with irate former bookseller, angry publishing rep and polite letters from bookstore chains. The hot news: publishers pay to have their book chosen as book of the month. And bestseller lists vary wildly.

It's still the school holidays and today we happened to go into three different bookstores in Berlin. One was a chain. My daughter loved it. If there's one thing the German chains do well it's keeping a large variety of teen fantasy fiction in stock. Which is great, if that's what you're into, and a lot of people are. I, however, felt patronised to find books I've enjoyed piled up on a messy table labelled "young & crazy".  

In the other two shops they knew exactly what I wanted and had it in stock or ordered it swiftly - although they had no teen fantasy sections. Independent bookstores here know they have to cater to niches and the fixed book prices help them compete with the chains, at least. Of course, they're closing down too as buyers go online, but some are thriving and the picture isn't as bleak as in the English-speaking world: "only" about a quarter of owner-run bookshops in Germany have closed down over the past ten years, as opposed to around half of all high-street bookshops in the UK over seven years, as the Torygraph reported. There's a plan to try and get the state to support independent booksellers, as this interesting Süddeutsche Zeitung piece explains. When I first heard about it I thought: what nonsense. Why should taxpayers fund private initiatives? But the way Felix Stephan comments on it, it does make more sense to me in that he describes independent booksellers as promoting literary diversity and supporting the independent publishing sector. I'm on the fence now, to be honest. 

Anyway, the other news that I'm trying not to find too sad is that Dialogue Books are shutting up shop in Berlin. But hey, they'll still do their excellent events and book clubs and their literary agency thing that they do. Starting with an open event about the future of translation, in conjunction with SAND mag. I shall see you all there. My daughter may well be sulking in the corner behind a teen fantasy book.

German Book Prize Longlist Book

So the German book trade organization does a free book with extracts from all the titles longlisted for the big German Book Prize every year. And every year it's a big deal to get hold of it. I pull all the strings I can but this year I still couldn't find out in advance which bookshops were going to have it in stock. In the past two years they put extracts online, which made my life easier (or less embarrassing), but this time there's only an app, and I don't have the snazzy hardware. I know, I ought to embrace these things, but I'm poor.

So this year it was out into the cruel, hard world again to traipse around bookshops asking for the booklet. I don't know why because I do read a fair amount of books and I do realise that booksellers are the world's coolest individuals, but I hate asking for things in bookshops. It makes me feel like a stuttering ten-year-old, it instantly reduces my German skills to Mittelstufe I and my voice to barely audible. Maybe it's to do with revealing my personal taste to a stranger, who might possibly judge me on it. Live. But still, I took it upon myself to tour Berlin in search of the book blogger's holy grail.

Independent bookshop one shall remain nameless but is in Kreuzberg. The lady said I should contact the Börsenverein if I wanted it. I said I already had (which was exaggerated) and they said "in good bookstores". The lady looked puzzled. I looked puzzled. I left.

Independent bookshop two was ocelot in Mitte. I walked in and approached the lady behind the counter, cleared my throat and started in on my spiel about the free book with the... "Oh you mean from the Börsenverein? Yes, we've ordered that, it should be in next week. Right, boss?" "Yes, that's right, we ordered a hundred of them, just come in and pick it up." Fainting ever so slightly, I stammered that I'd come back on Monday. I went back yesterday, found the free book prominently displayed on the counter, told a different lady that was just what I'd been looking for, could I just take one, and she smiled and seemed pleased that someone would come in specially for a slightly obscure free book and not actually buy anything. I left with the book, impressed. Compare a previous experience here and here to understand why I was so pleased.

Ocelot is a new bookshop. Actually I think there's also a comma after the lower-case name, but I don't feel the need to adhere to silly punctuation. It's terribly swanky to look at, all veneer surfaces and open spaces, with a café counter. This was my third visit after several longing glances through the huge display window (I believe I mentioned my financial situation above). The first time, I was looking for a particular book, a modern classic if you like, and they had it exactly where it should be. The second time was for an event, which was a tad on the dull side but that was hardly their fault. And then this. If you're looking for a good book in Mitte, you should go there too. They have a blog and hold events and seem to be very dedicated. A lovingly curated, modern bookshop, I'd say.

Locked in a Bookshop Overnight

Things are a tad hectic over here, as we rush to complete our translations of the Ingeborg Bachmann Prize entries. Obviously I can't tell you anything about them or I'd be shot by a literary court martial, but I have a feeling the competition will be fun. And I'll be blogging it live with my special translatorly insights.

To tide you over, read my fellow translator Isabel Bogdan's account of how she spent a whole night running wild in a bookshop. In German. Try not to be too envious though, it's bad for the complexion.

On Displaying Translated Titles

Not long ago, I referred to the podcasts from the Helene and Kurt Wolff Symposium in Chicago, which I listened to in the bath and can thoroughly recommend. Various translators, publishers and clever individuals all talking about translation (in particular of German literature). And I believe two of the panels touched on the subject of whether international literature should be marketed as translations or just plain ole books.

There was some disagreement, and it's a tricky issue. In the past, publishers have tried various approaches, including printing the translator's name in tiny letters and hoping nobody noticed the book was written by a dirty foreigner. Obviously, this didn't meet with major approval on the translators' side. Now we seem to be seeing a slight backlash, with special bookstore displays dedicated to translated fiction. I was in London last week and paid a visit to my old local bookshop, a suburban branch of Waterstones.

And lo and behold, there was a special shelf labelled "Lost in Translation". (A brief aside - is there anyone out there who doesn't groan instantly the moment they hear this hackneyed phrase? I've lost count of the number of articles I've read with this headline, which always makes my heart sink. But that could just be me I suppose.) In fact, however, I walked past the special "Lost in Translation" shelf and my mother had to call my attention to it. And do you know why? Because all the books were a strange shade of browny-grey. I can only assume that either most published translations come in strangely unexciting jackets or that Waterstones carefully picked titles that colour-coordinated with this dull scheme.

I probably ought to have taken notes, because I instantly forgot which books they were - apart from Charlotte Roche's Wetlands, which stood out a mile with its fuchsia pink avocadoed cover. And I also noticed they had committed the great folly of stocking the old Vintage Classics translation of The Tin Drum - surely some mistake what with Breon Mitchell's infinitely more interesting new version out there, even down to its much more funky jacket. But the overall impression I retained is that these books were worthy and old and not terribly sexy, and would probably make you a good person if you read them all. Which you would probably do sitting in your bath chair in front of a blazing fire, gouty leg raised on an upholstered footstool.

Now elsewhere in the store, there was a good sprinkling of more colourful translated titles - Roberto Bolano and Bulgakov under "Bad Boys" or some such, Stieg Larsson under "Local Favourites". So they seemed to be taking a belt-and-braces type approach, or at least not ghettoising international literature as such. And of course we should probably be grateful that the mighty Waterstones is highlighting translated fiction at all.

But I have to say the whole sorry spectacle placed me once and for all in the No To Special Sections camp. I much prefer the way German bookshops display their titles: arranged by genre pure and simple, no matter where the books come from. So you get Sophie Kinsella piled up next to Kerstin Gier, Feridun Zaimoglu next to Zadie Smith. Of course the huge difference is that translations are a perfectly normal phenomenon here and certainly don't need special attention.

But still, in an ideal world my perfect English-language bookshop would go to the trouble of stocking international literature but place it on the shelves alongside the books' untranslated peers. Readers would come across less well-known books as they browsed, rather than being explicitly alerted to them as translations. The translators would be credited on the covers, as is increasingly the case in the US but still unusual in Britain. And yes, it can make sense to highlight translations through events such as the (now defunct?) Reading the World series in the States, but in my personal utopia international writers would always be teamed up with domestic talents - firstly to foster exchange, and secondly to draw a larger crowd.

And there'd be a never-ending range of world literature in English, some with sexy covers and some fine upstanding re-translations of classics. And some fine upstanding re-translations of classics with sexy covers. And genre fiction and throwaway beach reading and books that change your life, and the booksellers would have read them all due to a secret time machine in the back room that enabled them to spend five hours of every day reading but still man the store all day long. And books would be really cheap because the state would subsidise them out of a special tax on tobacco, saturated fat and fossil fuels, but writers would be allowed to write anything they liked. And, you know, everything would be awesome.

Compare & Contrast: Bookshops

I haven't read the post that goes with it, but the German trade mag Buchreport has a lovely set of photos of the top bookstore chains around the world. So you can compare the terribly stylish French Fnac with Russia's Top-Kniga, for example, which looks like even standing near it would hurt your eyes. The picture of Germany's top chain, Thalia, reminds me that I must change my profile photo.

Pullman's Book Table

Waterstones. They've had a good idea. Get established authors to pick some books they like and put them on tables at the front of bookstores.

The second writer to wield the sword of his personal literary taste is Philip Pullmann, renowned author of His Dark Materials and so on. The list is remarkably Germanophile, including Thomas Mann's Buddenbrooks, the Brothers Grimmses' Complete Fairy Tales (where does the dang apostrophe go?), Kleist's Marquise of O., Rilke's Duino Elegies and Musil's Man Without Qualities.

But the hand-written comments I'd been looking forward to all week are sooooo incredibly disappointing! Pdfs! Scans of teeny-weeny little cards! With one sentence on them! What on earth is the point? And while I'm at it, what exactly is the point of including the sentence "A Major Literary Event: a brilliant new translation of Thomas Mann's first great novel, one of the two for which he was awarded the Nobel Prize in literature in 1929" in a synopsis when the translation actually on sale is the old Helen Lowe-Porter one?

I hope at least the whole thing will revolutionise the face of bookselling, starting a craze for obscure old German books (or obscure for Brits, at any rate).

From Pillar to Post

Remember all that talk of the free brochure containing extracts from all twenty titles longlisted for the German Book Prize? Remember me blithely commenting it would be available in bookshops from Saturday? Did you think at the time that I was too naive for this world?

I spent about three hours of my precious time today searching for this mythical publication. I asked in two small independent bookshops, one huge megastore bookshop, one large branch of a chain of bookshops, one book department in a department store and one station book and magazine outlet. The responses varied from a rude "No!" to "Gosh, someone else asked me that earlier on but they haven't sent us any, sorry..." to a very nicely meant suggestion that I just print out the list of titles and go and sit in a bookshop and read a little bit of each one. I assume the problem is that booksellers are reluctant to pay for something they then have to give away for free.

The whole experience made me feel like a complete freak, especially as some of the booksellers treated me like one. Either they thought the German Book Prize was too plebeian an institution to sully their shelves, or they were embarrassed to admit they didn't know what on earth I was talking about. Plus it was a tortuous exercise in self-retraint, as I was determined not to actually buy any books until I had found the fabled reader. The idea was that I would reward the marvellous bookshop that produced the bounty by investing in some paid-for reading material on the side. So I merely lingered by the hardbacks, fondly stroking their covers but unable to splash any cash in case the next shop could deliver the goods.

In the end I settled for a paper in the station newsagents. I still have one potential ace up my sleeve, but if anyone reading this has managed to get their hands on this penny black of the publishing world, please do let me know where you found it.

Book-Writers' Bookshops

The German book trade mag, excitingly titled Börsenblatt, runs a little feature series in which writers reveal their favourite bookshops. It's rather fun to read, in a geeky kind of way. But usually I'm not actually interested in Bernsteinbuch in Nittendorf, Buchhandlung Bittner in Cologne or Buchhandlung Geist in Bremen.

This time, though, Jenny Erpenbeck, a much-translated and rather good author, recommends a shop I could actually reach during a public transport strike. Just in case I have a sudden craving, you know. I have tended to avoid the shop, I think, as my strange ex-boyfriend lives round the corner, but I will have to rethink that now. Especially as the Canadian author Peter Behrens, who I saw in Leipzig, seems to be reading there on Saturday. What the site doesn't mention is that his début novel was translated by Brigitte Walitzek (Virginia Woolf, Margaret Atwood, Jeanette Winterson...).