Great books stay with you, silently working their magic long after you've closed the cover. I’ve seen it happen so many times in my shop — a customer pulls down a book at random, only to leave hours later, ineffably transformed. Not all transformations are loud or dramatic; some are subtle, life-changing whispers that creep up on you over time. These books contain sparks waiting to ignite.

 

When I bought my bookshop, it was on the verge of shutting down. The original owner, a sprightly man named Oliver, was ready to retire. He told me, “A book isn’t fully alive until someone’s makes it part of their life”. This philosophy has stayed with me ever since. And though business in Ashtonbury is never booming, there’s something about this place that feels timeless.

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On slow, rainy afternoons, the books and I keep each other company. They call to me as I walk by, almost like old friends. I watch as customers leave with copies of The Odyssey or Les Misérables tucked under their arms, knowing they’re about to embark on a journey they’ll never forget. Whether they’re navigating Homer’s stormy seas or walking through the streets of Paris with Jean Valjean, these stories pull them into other worlds and leave a lasting mark.​

 

The weight of certain tales linger long after the book is closed. They’re more than just narratives; they’re living, breathing worlds, and some of them refuse to let go. There are days when I can feel the presence of a story almost as if it were a person standing beside me, watching, waiting for the right moment to speak again. 

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It happens sometimes when a customer comes in, eagerly searching for more after finishing The Hobbit. With a knowing smile, I suggest The Silmarillion. They nod, trusting, unaware of the profound shift they’re about to experience. As they leave with the book tucked under their arm, I’m left with a strange sensation—a heaviness in the air, as if the full weight of Tolkien’s mythos has descended upon the shop. It’s not just a story anymore; it’s a legacy, a universe of its own, woven from a million strands of history, lore, and heartache. I feel him there, Tolkien himself, sitting with me in the quiet. His characters, his worlds—vast and intricate—slowly unfurl around us like an ancient, unending scroll. 

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There are also nights filled with spectacle — ‘jazzy reading nights’ we call them. Where the air hums with conversation and the soft crackle of jazz records spinning in the background. I arrange the room, carefully setting out the vintage albums and adjusting the lighting to a warm glow. As the evening winds down, the murmur of young lovers lingers in the air as they browse through the record collection, hands brushing together, lost in their own world. I watch them, as if from a distance, drawn to their quiet joy, and I think of myself as a kind of curator of moments, creating a space where memories are made, where music becomes a shared language of connection.

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There's something profound in knowing I’ve cultivated a place where souls meet and where melodies, like threads of a life unwinding, intertwine with the hopes and dreams of those who visit.​

 

It’s not just the big names like War and Peace or Moby Dick that haunt our shelves, though. There are smaller treasures, too, those books that never made the bestseller lists but have left an indelible mark on those who found them. I owe a great debt to an old friend who once handed me a secondhand copy of The Master and Margarita. I hadn’t heard of it at the time, but it changed the course of my life. Some books are sold in an instant, while others quietly sit on the shelves, whispering to those who pass by. I find comfort in their presence, even if no one else notices the copy of The Tale of Genji or Maggie: A Girl of the Streets collecting dust. They belong here, and their stories are ready whenever someone is willing to listen.

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I sometimes wonder how long I can keep this shop going. The foot traffic isn’t what it used to be—people seem to have so many other places to be, screens in their pockets calling for their attention. I watch them pass by the window, heads down, always in a rush, and I wonder if they even notice the little green door with the brass handle anymore. The shelves are still packed with stories, but the space between these walls feels quieter now, as if the books themselves are holding their breath. 

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But then someone steps in. Today, it was a mother and her daughter, their arms full of paperbacks. They told me that this place was their sanctuary, the heart of the town. They told me that when the world feels too fast, they come here to slow down, to remember the magic that lives between pages. And for an eternal moment, I’m reminded why I must be here.​

 

It’s not about the numbers or the foot traffic. It’s about being a beacon, even if just for a few. So long as there are people like them—people who believe in the quiet power of words—I’ll keep opening that green door. Maybe it’s not the biggest life, but it’s one that still matters.​

 

I’m reminded of an old line from Don Quixote: “The truth may be stretched thin, but it never breaks, and it always surfaces above lies, as oil floats on water.” There’s a sense of mystical timelessness in a bookshop, a reminder that the stories we tell and the stories we love are always there, waiting to be discovered again.

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In this disenchanted age, genuine literature offers a rare glimpse into what we have lost. True art, not the commodified product of our commercial culture, but the genuine expression of the human soul, always speaks to the parts of ourselves that long for transcendence, for meaning, for connection with the eternal human drama.