‘Paradise is where I am.’

D I V E   I N

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Places with books

 

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In Hong Kong, places with books are places of abundance, activity, even revelry. It’s no surprise then, that Hongkongers browse the spines at all and any times of the day; from one-hour lunch breaks, needing respite from screens, to post-dinner strolls, seeking some kind of intellectual dessert. When it comes to places with books, it seems we can’t get enough.

 

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Chain bookshops in Hong Kong have a certain gravitas. Perhaps it’s down to their spates of space — something hard to come by in the city. Or maybe it’s the wide selection of books; how you can feel sated, maybe even overwhelmed, by the offerings in the Psychology section alone. Many of these shops also provide something additional to reading material — gifts, tea, stationary — creating a fuller shopping experience for those who want it (and giving independent brands a place to sell their wares). Despite their reputation, chains aren’t necessarily charmless; the sample copy of The Book of Answers in Eslite (TST) is falling apart at the seams from frequent use. Placing a palm on top of the book, asking a burning question, and then opening to the page that feels right is a casually intimate ritual for many who visit this bustling branch.

 

This kind of shop offers plentiful paradoxes, all hinged on your purpose: speed and shortcuts, submergence and serenity, side-tracks and segues. They are equally as good for dawdling or distractedly perusing as for securing exactly what you want.

 

Then there are independent or small chain bookshops selling new reads in an understated, casual manner, a world away from in-store escalators and ambient lighting. They perch inconspicuously between everyday businesses on everyday streets, and typically sell a mix of Chinese and English books. These humble merchants stand as a kind of monument of deference to the past, reminding us that there was a time not so long ago when all shops were like this very shop, that this is what we were reared on.

 

And finally, there are the second-hand bookshops (which make up a large portion of our independent bookshops, the two having become somewhat mutually exclusive over the last few years). Usually found down unsuspecting alleyways or up narrow stairwells, they are intimate, both in square footage and atmosphere. They have an air of having no airs; they’re honest and imperfect, making them the ideal refuge for days when you can’t stomach the modern world and the corporate city, the busy streets and the futility of it all.

 

 

 

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Central Public Library is the biggest library in Hong Kong (and is thus the flagship). Covering 100,000 square feet and serving as the Hong Kong Public Libraries HQ, it is a behemoth in terms of capacity and resources. If you wanted further proof of its supremacy: the arch-shaped doorway on top of the front facade of the building represents the Gate to Knowledge. While the happening vibe of bookstores can’t be found here, the myriad facilities, ample space, and bountiful natural light set it apart from most libraries in H.K. (and many abroad). From 09.30, perhaps even earlier, people queue outside the front doors with itchy feet and frequent watch-checks like bargain hunters on the eve of Black Friday. After the doors open and the line files into the foyer, each person splits off like an energised molecule, darting towards the escalators or the lifts in a bid to secure the most sought-after working spot or that day’s international newspapers.

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Ultimately, though, it doesn't matter how big or fancy or flagship a library is. What matters is that it exists. Libraries are arms wide open. They say, you are welcome, and no one is looking at you. You do not need to worry about your footwear or your employment status or your credit score. You do not need to borrow whatever you touch or interact with anyone if you don’t want to or sit appropriately on the chairs (a regular sight in Hong Kong libraries is older folks snoozing, half-propped up, on cushioned benches and in armless chairs). Libraries, with their silence and space, can facilitate whatever mood you’re tuned into when you walk through the doors, extending to you newness or oldness, physical pages or screens, work or play (or, yes, sleep).​

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Places to buy or borrow books aren’t the only places to find books.

 

Artful stacks can be found in restaurants and cafés, too — thick, leather-bound volumes in bistros with dim lights and maroon-coloured chairs; mismatched sizes and shades in coffee shops with minimal furniture and an artsy vibe. These books are usually meant to be aesthetically pleasing and add to the theme of the business, but their presence does more than that. Books being somewhere books usually aren’t seems to conjure a sense of comfort, especially in the way they’re displayed, often as they might be at home — on a shelf with other ornaments, in a pile by an armchair. They add a touch of intimacy and homeliness to the outside world of customers, cash registers, and chef whites.

 

But are they meant to be touched? If we can reach it, can we read it? Hopefully the answer is yes, that the comfort they bring extends beyond their existence and presentation, although we confess: we are yet to find out.

 

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I visited Swindon Books on Lock Road the day before it closed its doors for good. It had been around since 1918 (‘an institution’, people called it on Twitter), and there was a sadness imbued in the bustle. The landline phone was bleating, the books were piled and strewn across tables in no particular order, the queue never fully diminished, and there was a consistent ringing of the till. During my slow, purposeful wander around the shop, I tried to imbibe the energy of it, a familiar friend I would no longer be able to visit, a place I had counted on for calm and consistency. There is something sad about a bookshop closing, sadder perhaps than any other kind of shop. Is it because they offer a place of peace? Is it because they bring out the best in humankind — curiosity, openness, enthusiasm (and a willingness to spend money on something in a physical shop)? Is it because they feel precious now, like rare gems we must hold onto? Perhaps it is all of the above.

 

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We are not the only ones acquainted with, fascinated by, and thankful for places with books — if the number of non-fiction works published about book dwellings is anything to go by. In My Bookstore, as the tagline says, ‘writers celebrate their favourite places to browse, read, and shop’. The Library Book by Susan Orlean explores the 1986 fire that destroyed the Los Angeles Library, looking at not only the events and the aftermath but also the role libraries play in our lives. In 84, Charing Cross Road, American writer Helene Hanff’s friendship with the owner of a London bookshop (as well as notes about shop life and the books that passed through) is recounted in their letters.

 

Places with books are not just buildings or storage shells. They inspire ideas, shape lives, and have stories of their own — just like their inhabitants.