The sad state of books in Brazil

“No one buys books in Brazil anymore”, someone said and shook his head. “The only time someone ever buys books are at event”, someone else added.

Ask anyone that’s ever been involved in the publishing industry – publishers, editors, booksellers, writers – in any country and they will all tell you how difficult the times are nowadays. This has held true in every country and city I’ve ever been to, including Hay-on-wye, where a lady in a bookshop shook her head sadly and said there used to be many more bookshop there. But not anyway. She didn’t think there were more than 25 now.

There’s not quite 25 bookshops in the area close to the hotel, but it’s not that far off. I’ve counted some five just in the immediate area around it. Most of them are part of chains, of course: “There used to be many more independent bookshops, but they are all closing nowaday”, said a third person.

No bookshop in Santos can compete with The Bookseller’s. This Saturday he had organized a little celebration at the bookshop after the events of the day had ended. The doors were open towards the warm evening outside, people were having a beer out on the streets, and a man with a guitar and a woman with a violin were playing inside. And everyone was of course surrounded by books. I even got to go backstage. I miss being allowed into storerooms now that I no longer work in a bookshop. Isn’t it an amazing view?

A Bookseller in the Tropics

It was our last evening in Santos, and we were having beers and hamburgers at this great bar. The Bookseller told me that he planned to write a book one day called The Bookseller in the Tropics, but until then he used Facebook to revenge himself on annoying customers. They seem to be just as many in Brazil as in Sweden.

A few examples:
An annoying lady came by the bookshop. I missed the background on why he felt so sure he couldn’t help her, but apparently she wasn’t having it anyway:
She: “I have looked everywhere! You are the only one that can help me!”
The Bookseller: “I doubt it.”
She: “I’m sure you can!”
He: “I’m sure I can’t.”
And so it continued, back and forth, until he decided to just stand there, quiet and immobile, “turning slowly into a stone” until she eventually left.

He also shared with me the best example of the customer that doesn’t know what she’s looking for (you know the type: “I don’t know the title or the author or what the book’s about, but I remember that the cover is red. Or possibly blue. Can you look it up in the computer?”). His customer didn’t even know the colour, but she knew it was “this thick”, using her index finger and thumb to measure it. Naturally the Bookseller then walked around the bookshop measuring all the books he saw. I suspect that she too left in the end.

But I don’t want you to think that the Bookseller is asocial or grumpy or dislike people like, say, me. No, no. Wherever he goes someone is calling out a greeting and receiving a smile, a pat on the shoulder in return and a loud and happy “oi!”. He seems to know half the city and like everyone; and everyone certainly likes him.

Speaking of “Oi!”, I have to introduce you to the Driver. You might remember him from the drive from the airport when I had just arrived to this fascinating country. And he continued to drive people back and forth between Sao Paulo and Santos all week. We often see each other outside of the theatre where the book festival is; he while dropping off or picking up or waiting for people, me while smoking. He talks very little English and I almost no Portuguese, but we always greet each other like old friends. “Hello!” he says, and I reply with a “Oi! Todo ben?” He smiles encouragingly everytime and pretends to be impressed by my Portuguese. After that we have basically used all the words we have in common, and have to rely on gestures, smiles and shrugs. But don’t they always say that a true sign of friendship is that you can be quiet together and don’t have to talk all the time?

A new writer had joined us that evening called Antonio Ladeira, a Portuguese writer and literary scholar who lives in Lubbock, Texas. He’s the only one I met who voluntarily moved to Lubbock. He was extremely fond of and knowledgeable about (fountain) pens and could never remember a name. By now he had called Ana Margarida some three or four different things, like Ana Christina, Ana Maria etc. I like pens as much as the next author, but I’m not even close his level. He kindly informed me that there were several great pen shows in the US (he had been to them too, I’m sure). He had brought three pens to Brazil: one “cheaper, from China” that he didn’t really care about (I didn’t either). The second one was a Parker ’51, which apparently is an iconic pen that was produced between the 30ies and 70ies (or something like it), but still retains a classic, modern feel some four decades after it stopped being produced. I loved that pen and will definitely buy one. I don’t remember the name of the third one, but it was the most expensive, and it was also the pen that Neil Gaiman swore by. He kindly let me try all of them, and then he turned to me and said: “So, Margaret…”He blinked confusedly when me and Ana Margarida started laughing. “Now you remember Margaret”, she said and shook her head.

At the end of the evening I turned to the Bookseller and told him that he really should write that novel. “But maybe you shouldn’t have told me about it, because it’s such a great title that I might steal it.” – “It’s my gift to you”, he replied seriously and then added: “Since you’re stealing it anyway, I’m gifting it to you.”

PS. I was kidding. I would never steal someone elses title. But I would love to read that book.

My mom

… is very much cooler than me. This is just one example, speaking of ships: my mother used to work on one. This was in the 70ies, before I was born, and it fills me with equal parts admiration and jealousy. She traveled from Cape Town, to Rio de Janeiro, up through the Panama Canal, and on towards Sac Francisco.

During these trips she did of course visit Santos, but what’s more: she also once worked on a ship named Santos.

A short update

I now speak English with a Brazilian accent and Ivander has started to react to the clickety-click sound of my shoes. Everytime he hears it he sits up straight and looks all around him. I’m not Miranda in The Devil Wears Prada. I’m the crocodile in Peter Pan.

The most important words in Brazil right now

Yesterday I participated in one of the many demonstrations held against Bolsonaro all over Brazil. I learned how to say: ”contra fascismo”, ”contra homofobia”, ”contra racismo” and, of course, the most important words here right now: #EleNao or #NotHim.

And the important conversations continued at the Tarrafa Literaria. I listened to this amazing woman, Djamila Ribeiro, who’s written a book called Who’s Afraid of Black Feminism? She was the main event at the book festival, and by far both the most popular and the most important. The line continued for two blocks. When they couldn’t let everyone in, they put up speakers out towards the street so that everyone could at least listen to her. She talked, amongst many other things about how she refused to be reduced to either a victim or a warrior. That when white people told the story of black people they inevitable focused on the suffering, until all they became were passive victims. For white people, the history of black people began with slavery. For her, telling the story of centuries of resistance was equally important. But she also criticized the romantization of the strong black woman. Romantizing the strenght and sacrifices of black women also means romanticisisng society’s violence against them. She wanted to be “human and happy and honouring the sacrifices of my parents.”

Perhaps the most important part of her talk for me was how white people have to learn that empathy is an intellectual, emotional and moral process that demands real action. It’s not lika a flu virus you can catch and then recover from a few days later. As an example, she mentioned how her own view and knowledge about trans people had changed: “We must kill the oppressor inside of us. It’s a painful process, but it is neccessary.”

Against hatred and intolerance
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