I can’t help recalling Dr Samuel Johnson’s famous saying: “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of Life”.  I hope the same does not apply for someone who is bored of bookshops?

I used to love bookshops; used to be always in bookshops; used to work in a bookshop.  Nowadays, I don’t so much as glance in their windows.  So, how did the love affair end?

Objectively, I can trace that the roots of the disenchantment are set in the past.  As far back as the 1980s even, and the rise of the big bookshop chains: Dillons; Waterstones; Borders from the US.  A philosophy of “pile ‘em high” had suddenly replaced a cosy intimacy.  And, let’s be honest, “pile ‘em high” is no good basis for a longstanding romantic relationship outside of a Ben Dover movie.

The small, independent bookshops, which I had endlessly mooned around as a callow youth, were becoming shrinking violets in a world monopolised by major players.

However, desperate not to give up entirely on my former passion, I turned my attention away from new bookshops and discovered a fresh bibliophilia in the realm of secondhand bookshops.  Here, once again, I discovered an individuality of establishments that I had so much valued previously.  I frequented Charing Cross Road like Romeo beneath Juliet’s balcony.  It was the 1990s.  Pre-Internet.  But, the times they were a-changin’.

Amazon.  eBay.  Suddenly, there were new kids on the block.  One by one, the secondhand bookshops in Charing Cross Road began to close.  To continue my love affair, I was driven online.  Internet dating?  I started relationships with abebooks and bookfinder.

And, for a while, I was happy.  More than happy.  For a brief period of time, it seemed as though I had access to the wares of every bookshop in the world with nothing more than a simple click from my bedroom.

But, maybe familiarity really does breed contempt, or perhaps I just got tired of the excess; the glut of books online.  Whatever it was, one day, I woke up and I found that I had fallen out of love with this virtual ubiquity.  There was no longer the thrill of the chase.  I wanted intimacy, not orgy.

And, more pragmatically, I had begun to find that I could no longer track down any books for which I was hunting.  Maybe my tastes had become more discerning?  It’s not you; it’s me.  Where “pile ‘em high” had reduced choice in the 1980s, now my own ennui had produced a vicious circle of dissatisfaction.

So, what is next?

Perhaps there is a Dark Web for books?  Some secretive literary cartel to which I have yet to be invited; a digital version of The Club Dumas; that one perfect place, which will once again reignite my passion for bookshops.

Until that day, I know that I will continue to frequent online bookshops, but more from a sense of habit rather than anticipation.

© Fergus Longfellow

Fergus Longfellow is bored of his bookshop ennui.