Remembering Michael Neal
Among our colleagues, no one was more important to the life of the Village Voice bookstore than Michael Neal, an eccentric man in an “eccentric place,” to borrow the expression Susan Sontag used for our bookshop. Easygoing and extroverted by nature, Michael felt at home in Paris and knew its history as no one else did, but he also remained British to the core with his sharp sense of humor and large stock of anecdotes that never missed bringing on “good laughs” (as he would say) from his listeners.
It is difficult to imagine him without a book in his hands or a pile of books precariously balancing on his shoulder—an image that has stayed with me since he first walked into the bookshop. Writer Edmund White once drove home this point. When author Alice Kaplan was looking for information on Vichy collaborator Robert Brasillach, he quickly informed her that “Michael is a remarkable bibliophile to consult.” In turn, Michael preferred to call himself a “bibliomaniac,” a term that brought to mind his sheer passion and frenzied hunting after rare historical documents. Relentlessly he would track them down through his personal network of collectors and booksellers. Among them was his good friend Martin Stone, one of the world’s experts on the antiquarian book business.
A voracious reader, always on the lookout for new finds dug out of some dark corner of history, Michael was the only one I’ve known to have gone through the forty volumes of the Nuremberg trial archives and the twenty volumes of the complete works of George Orwell, his great literary hero whom he would quote at the snap of a finger, to the astonishment of just about everyone. While most of his favorite authors were British literati now forgotten, relegated to the “oubliettes,” as he would say, Michael was also an inveterate admirer of Bob Dylan, often welcoming customers by singing lyrics of the popular American bard and future Nobel Prize winner.
In fact, he was very eclectic in his literary tastes, boasting, just a few days before he died, of his night table crowded with the complete poetic works of William Blake alongside the novels of Marcel Proust in French and English translation. I will never forget the expression of surprise on the face of travel writer and essayist Pico Iyer when Michael produced the out-of-print edition of George Painter’s famous biography of Proust he had promised him the day before. “A gift,” he chuckled, handing it to him. Years later, in an interview, Iyer described Michael as a “man of trust.” I too recognize that “trust” is the word that defined our working relationship for more than twenty years: we shared not only a love for books, but the same basic values, and “trust” was certainly at the top of our priorities. More than a highly principled associate, Michael was a true friend and remained a dear one well after our Village Voice years. He is sorely missed by everyone who knew him—former colleagues, customers, and friends who speak of him with deep fondness.
Michael Neal, Village Voice Bookshop, 2004. © Alison Harris
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The Village Voice was a collective venture that included authors, publishers, collaborators, and customers, as well as a close circle of friends and family. I wish to express my gratitude to each and every one of them for making it a fulfilling journey in every sense of the word.
First, I am beholden to all the authors who read at the Village Voice, and particularly those presented here. Each one is a unique voice in the chorus of this memoir. I owe a particular debt to the writers of the Third Wave of American expatriates who built up the reputation of the bookstore. Among them are Jeffrey Greene, Ellen Hinsey, Denis Hirson, Nancy Huston, Diane Johnson, Jake Lamar, and of course, Edmund White, not forgetting the late Mavis Gallant and C. K. Williams, and as well David Applefield, Jim Haynes, Carol Pratl, and John Strand. I cannot thank Steven Barclay enough for inviting some of the most prestigious writers from his San Francisco agency to read with us.
Bookshops are much more than shelves of books, and their prestige relies heavily on their booksellers—discriminating book lovers committed to making these books known and read. Over the years, apart from our Michael Neal, we had a number of knowledgeable and highly valued collaborators: the very first ones were Susan Hermann,1 Friederike Holl, and Yann Hellier, whose enthusiasm and commitment set just the right tone, making our fledging bookstore-cum-café a welcoming and friendly place; Aude Samarut and Mariana Czarniecka always recommended the right book to the right customer, while Vincent Pierrot, a devotee of the seventh art, created a new momentum in our shop by adding a section of import DVDs and inviting prestigious film directors, such as Budd Schulberg, Jonas Mekas, and Frederick Wiseman to talk about their films. And thank you to Marc Fairbrother, our cool digital geek who revamped our initial internet site, making it a lively and attractive window on our bookstore events.
I learned a great deal from American and British publisher representatives who regularly visited the Village Voice to present their seasonal catalogues. Rebecca Byers was among the first ones to push open our door, bringing with her the art of choosing the most suitable titles for our shop that, much later on, Michael Ondaatje was to describe as a “carefully edited bookstore.”
Needless to say, French publishers played an important role in our bilingual offerings. Among them, I owe special thanks to Francis Geffard, Éditions Albin Michel, and the founder of Festival America who introduced us to some of the great voices of the Native American Renaissance, to Olivier Cohen (Éditions de l’Olivier), and the publishers Christian and Dominique Bourgois, Ivan Nabokov (Plon), Marc Parent (Buchet-Chastel) for inviting their Anglophone authors to take part in joint readings with their French translators. Among the latter were language magicians that included Claro, Brice Matthieussent, Michel Lederer, Paule Guivarch, and the late Jean-Pierre Carasso, Bernard Hoepffner, and François Lasquin, all of whom enchanted us with their linguistic prowess and inventiveness.
In the last two years of the bookstore, a time of great uncertainty for us, Vera Michalski, the head of the Editorial Group Libella, commissioned the Village Voice to provide the multilingual library of her Foundation Jan Michalski with American books. Her commitment prolonged the life of our bookshop, a gesture for which I am most grateful. In her work with American and French publishers, American-born literary agent Michèle Lapautre facilitated many of our bilingual events, attending every single reading of the authors she represented, always with a beaming smile on her face.
Our bookstore was part of a Paris network of Anglophone cultural institutions, and we enjoyed working with Simone Suchet of the Canadian Cultural Center; Charles Trueheart, the head of the American Library in Paris; as well as the librarians of the British Council, Irish Cultural Center, American School of Paris, and Marymount International School, who invited us to participate in their own book events. I would also like to acknowledge the mutual support that existed among the various Anglophone bookstores in the city, and thank in particular Susan Rosenberg, the senior manager of Brentano’s, Sylvia Whitman of Shakespeare and Company, and Penelope Fletcher of the Red Wheelbarrow.
My warmest thanks to Mary Eleanor Gawronski who, as the Cultural Attaché at the American Embassy in the 1990s, enhanced the visibility of American authors in France, and who, as a friend, showed unwavering support for our bookstore by attending our events whenever possible.
Scholars and professors of American and British literatures regularly took part in our readings. I want to express my appreciation to Noëlle Batt, Marc Chénetier, Isabelle de Courtivron, Nelcya Delanoë, Marta Dvorak, Larry Dewaele, Françoise Palleau, and Joëlle Rostkowski for sharing with us their singular insights into the works of the authors they introduced. I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge the literary critic Livia Manera Sambuy, who presented the documentary film about her visit with Philip Roth in the States, giving us a rare opportunity to meet this icon of American letters in the privacy of his home. Greatly appreciated by everyone who had been close to the bookshop, her New Yorker piece on its closing was a token of her friendly support over the years.
Our regular audience holds a special place in the story of the Village Voice. Their pertinent questions enriched the debates with our authors; in this regard, Jeanette Demeestère, Diane Murez, and Carol Allen come to mind. The latter organized special readings and other activities, including her memorable “Chair Party,” a playful and poetic celebration of our community.
Books have a way of creating special bonds among people, and indeed, they sparked my friendship with Adine Sagalyn, taking her back to her childhood and me to my days in Amherst, Mariette Job, Mira Rogulski, Sylvain Laroze, Polina Livchitz, and the artist Kathy Toma who, on several occasions, made our window displays into original works of art that attracted the attention of passersby. Likewise, I was deeply touched by Janet Skeslien’s allusion to our bookshop in her fictional work The Paris Library, a personal homage to the courage of the librarians of the American Library in Paris during the Nazi occupation.
Active support did not end with the closing of our bookshop, and my fondest gratitude goes to Steven Barclay, Rebecca Byers, Marie-Florence Estimé, Judith Fleiss, Sarah Gaddis, Yann Hellier, Denis Hirson, Friederike Holl, Jake Lamar, Vincent Pierrot, Mira Rogulski, Jean Pierre de Roo, and Kathy and Flavio Toma for reading the manuscript or parts of it. Their constructive criticism and suggestions were of great value to me, and an encouragement.
In today’s society, like all business ventures, independent bookstores must keep pace with the irreversible march of a world that requires professional and digital expertise. My warmest thanks to Jacques Guillo and Azad Nadir for their invaluable advice and technical assistance, as well their friendly support over the years.
I am indebted to the photographers and artists who, through their respective works, have kept alive some of the most memorable moments of the Village Voice. They include the photographers Catherine Deudon, Roberta Fineberg, Alison Harris, Leigh Miller, John Minihan, Steve Murez, and Flavio Toma, as well as the artists Kathy Toma, “Le Prince Esspé,” Katia Gerasimov, and the graphist Rollin. Finally, a sincere tribute to Ricardo Mosner, whose imposing painting Serie Tremenda accompanied us over the years, colorfully framing the staircase to the second-floor readings.
Since our closing in 2012, a number of our authors have passed away. Sadly, we cannot name them individually, but we hope that our own body of recollections will make their voices resonate again in the context of their readings at the Village Voice Bookshop in Paris.
It took several years for this memoir to come into its own, and I want to express my deepest gratitude to my close friend Virginia Larner, who has accompanied me through its latest stages. A regular at our bookshop events and a discriminating reader herself, Virginia spared no time or effort going over the manuscript’s different versions with her sharp eye for detail and nuance, always showing implicit respect for the raison d’être of my undertaking. Her critical consideration of each chapter and invaluable suggestions are a matchless token of our friendship, and in a way, her own tribute to the authors remembered and celebrated in this memoir.
I would like to express my deepest thanks and appreciation to Barry Gifford for sending the manuscript of Village Voices to his own publisher, Seven Stories Press.
My sincere gratitude goes to Dan Simon, publisher and president of Seven Stories Press. He has generously offered a new home to so many of our Anglophone authors who made our bookshop their port of call in Paris. Thank you, Dan Simon, for daring to take a chance on this memoir of a particular time and a place and for giving its “Voices” a fuller and lasting resonance among the narrative works of your highly respected anthology of publications.
For closely reading my manuscript, my deep gratitude goes to Noa Mendoza, who patiently and graciously accompanied me through the editing process. Always attentive to my own views, she likewise continued to enlarge the range of other, often-promising alternatives. Thank you, Noa, for making our written exchanges over thousands of miles an ongoing and enriching conversation. It has been a most gratifying experience working with you.
Discreet but always there when needed, the deeply felt presence of my family has made all the difference to me.