A small bookshop for slow readers. We carry a hundred or so titles at any time — chosen carefully, ordered for you if we don't have a copy.
Browse the shelvesEight titles we keep coming back to. Stock is small — if a book's gone, we'll usually have it again within a week.
Williams's quiet 1965 novel follows a Missouri farm boy who becomes an English professor — an unhappy marriage, an academic feud, a brief late love. Restrained almost to the point of disappearing, and somehow devastating.
On an unnamed island, objects begin to vanish from people's memories — first ribbons, then birds, then more. A young novelist hides her editor, whose mind refuses to forget. Quietly terrifying.
An old Iowa preacher writes a long letter to his young son, knowing he won't live to see the boy grow up. Theology, prairie light, and the difficult question of how to forgive — all in one voice.
Sebald walks the Suffolk coast and his mind wanders — to silkworms, herring fleets, Joseph Conrad, the Taiping Rebellion, lost friends. A book that decides to be every kind of book at once.
A woman lives alone in a cottage in the west of Ireland and tells you, in immaculate prose, about porridge, control knobs, mice, fruit, and the precise interior weather of her solitary life.
An eccentric older woman in a remote Polish village translates William Blake, watches the stars, and is convinced the local hunters are being killed by the animals they shoot. Strange, funny, furious.
Nine essays — on the colour blue, on being lost as a practice, on the desert, on captivity narratives, on the gap between maps and the world. Solnit at her most associative and patient.
A Nigerian-German psychiatrist walks through Manhattan in the months after his girlfriend leaves. He thinks about Brussels, about Mahler, about his patients, about himself — and reveals more than he means to.
A shorter rotation. These come and go depending on what someone behind the counter is reading.
The devil arrives in 1930s Moscow with a talking cat and proceeds to make a glorious mess. Meanwhile, two thousand years earlier, Pontius Pilate is making the worst decision of his career. Bulgakov wrote it in secret for twelve years.
A book-length essay on love, gender, motherhood, and language — wound around Nelson's relationship with the artist Harry Dodge. The footnotes are unattributed quotations; the form is part of the argument.
240 numbered fragments on the colour blue, on grief, on a friend's paralysis, on a love affair that ended badly. Closer to a long poem than an essay, and somehow exact.
A man rides an escalator from his office lobby to his floor and reflects on the engineering of shoelaces, the history of drinking straws, paper-towel dispensers, his father. The footnotes are the point.
A novelist teaches a writing workshop in Athens and listens — to seatmates on planes, to friends, to students. She herself almost disappears. The first of three remarkable books.
Ernaux writes the autobiography of her generation in the third-person plural — France from 1941 to 2006, told through photographs, songs, advertising, what "one" said at the dinner table. Unlike anything else.
A short novel about Robert Grainier, a day labourer in the early-twentieth-century American West — wildfires, the building of the railways, a wife and daughter lost. Sparse and elegiac.
A journalist named Jen Fain narrates New York in the 1970s in glittering fragments — parties, plane crashes, court trials, idle observations. Plotless on purpose, and one of the best New York novels ever written.
"A bookshop is a kind of slow conversation — with the writers on the shelves, with the people who walk in, with whoever ran it before you. We try to keep ours honest." — A note from the shop
Looking for a specific book? Want to order something we don't have on the shelf? Send a note — we usually reply within a day.
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