The Door-to-Door Bookstore

by Carsten Henn

The questioner, Ursel Schäfer, knew exactly what constituted a good book. Firstly, it must be gripping enough to keep her awake in bed reading until her eyes drooped shut. Secondly, it must contain at least three, preferably four, points at which she was moved to tears. Thirdly, it must have no less than three hundred pages, but no more than three hundred and eighty, and fourthly, the cover must never be green. Books with green covers were not to be trusted—bitter experience had taught her this on several occasions.

He never watched the news, never listened to the radio, never read a newspaper. He would have been the first to admit that he had lost touch with the world. It had been a deliberate decision, once all the reports of incompetent state leaders, ice cap melt, and suffering refugees had begun to sadden him more than the most tragic literary family saga ever could. It had been a form of self-preservation, even though his world had shrunk as a result.

“Never heard of them. Don’t read books anyway. Only if I have to. In school. Even then, I try to watch the film instead.” Leon grinned, as if this was a cunning way to make a fool of his teacher, rather than himself.

“It’s important that they read, not what they read,” old Gruber had always said. Carl couldn’t quite endorse that view for all books: the ideas found between the covers of some were worse than poison, but more often than not, there was healing to be found on the page, sometimes even for ailments the reader hadn’t realized they were suffering from.

“Those books which lie closest to our hearts are precisely the books we should give away, so that they may bring others happiness.”

“I’m all ears.” All fears would have been closer to the mark, but even in his current state of mild anxiety, Carl liked to remain polite.

“You see, there is no book that can please everyone. And if there were, it would be a bad book. You can’t be everyone’s friend, because everyone is different. You’d have to be completely lacking in personality, no rough edges or sharp corners. But even then, many people wouldn’t like you, because they need rough edges and sharp corners.

The only difference between a novel with a happy ending and one without is the point at which you cease telling the story.”

Even when an extraordinary book ends at precisely the right point, with precisely the right words, and anything further would only destroy that perfection, it still leaves us wanting more pages. That is the paradox of reading.

But when a drama occurs in life, it’s only reasonable to overdramatize the retelling a little for effect.

That’s mostly the truth.” “Apart from the bit that’s a lie.”