The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

Description

Product Description

Monsieur Perdu can prescribe the perfect book for a broken heart. But can he fix his own?
 
Monsieur Perdu calls himself a literary apothecary. From his floating bookstore in a barge on the Seine, he prescribes novels for the hardships of life. Using his intuitive feel for the exact book a reader needs, Perdu mends broken hearts and souls. The only person he can''t seem to heal through literature is himself; he''s still haunted by heartbreak after his great love disappeared. She left him with only a letter, which he has never opened.

After Perdu is finally tempted to read the letter, he hauls anchor and departs on a mission to the south of France, hoping to make peace with his loss and discover the end of the story. Joined by a bestselling but blocked author and a lovelorn Italian chef, Perdu travels along the country’s rivers, dispensing his wisdom and his books, showing that the literary world can take the human soul on a journey to heal itself.

Internationally bestselling and filled with warmth and adventure, The Little Paris Bookshop is a love letter to books, meant for anyone who believes in the power of stories to shape people''s lives.

Review

New York Times Bestseller
A Barnes and Noble Best of 2015 Selection 
A LibraryReads Favorite of the Favorites Selection


"If you''re looking to be charmed right out of your own life for a few hours, sit down with this wise and winsome novel...Everything happens just as you want it to... from poignant moments to crystalline insights in exactly the right measure."— Oprah.com

“The settings are ideal for a summer-romance read…Who can resist floating on a barge through France surrounded by books, wine, love, and great conversation?” Christian Science Monitor

“[A] bona fide international hit.”— New York Times Book Review

"Warmhearted...A charming novel that believes in the healing properties of fiction, romance, and a summer in the south of France."— Kirkus

"Engaging... [George''s] sumptuous descriptions of both food and literature will leave readers unsure whether to run to the nearest library or the nearest bistro."— Publishers Weekly

"Uplifting... An international best seller, this one will make you happy."— The Independent

" The Little Paris Bookshop is an enchantment. Set in a floating barge along the Seine, this love letter to books - and to the complicated, sometimes broken people who are healed by them - is the next best thing to booking a trip to France."— Sarah Pekkanen, author of Catching Air

“Simultaneously heartbreaking and heartwarming, Nina George’s impressionistic prose takes the reader on a journey not just through the glories of France and the wonders of books, but through the encyclopedic panoply of human emotions. The Little Paris Bookshop is a book whose palette, textures, and aromas will draw you in and cradle you in the redemptive power of love.”— Charlie Lovett, author of The Bookman’s Tale

"Nina George tells us clever things about love, about reading that ''puts a bounce in your step,'' about tango in Provence, and about truly good food. . . . One of those books that gets you thinking about whom you need to give it to as a gift even while you''re still reading it, because it makes you happy and should be part of any well-stocked apothecary." Hamburger Morgenpost (Germany)
 
“Enchanting and moving ... Rarely have I read such a beautiful book!” Tina magazine (Germany)
 

About the Author

NINA GEORGE works as a journalist, writer, and storytelling teacher. She is the award winning author of 26 books, and also writes feature articles, short stories, and columns. The Little Paris Bookshop spent over a year on bestseller lists in Germany, and was a bestseller in Italy, Poland, and the Netherlands. George is married to the writer Jens J. Kramer and lives in Berlin and in Brittany, France.

www.nina-george.com
@nina_george • @jean_perdu

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

1

How on earth could I have let them talk me into it?

The two generals of number 27 Rue Montagnard—Madame Bernard, the owner, and Madame Rosalette, the concierge—had caught Monsieur in a pincer movement between their ground-floor flats.

“That Le P. has treated his wife shamelessly.”

“Scandalously. Like a moth treats a wedding veil.”

“You can hardly blame some people when you look at their wives. Fridges in Chanel. But men? Monsters, all of them.”

“Ladies, I don’t quite know what . . .”

“Not you of course, Monsieur Perdu. You are cashmere compared with the normal yarn from which men are spun.”

“Anyway, we’re getting a new tenant. On the fourth floor. Yours, Monsieur.”

“But Madame has nothing left. Absolutely nothing, only shattered illusions. She needs just about everything.”

“And that’s where you come in, Monsieur. Give whatever you can. All donations welcome.”

“Of course. Maybe a good book . . .”

“Actually, we were thinking of something more practical. A table, perhaps. You know, Madame has—”

“Nothing. I got that.”

The bookseller could not imagine what might be more practical than a book, but he promised to give the new tenant a table. He still had one.

Monsieur Perdu pushed his tie between the top buttons of his white, vigorously ironed shirt and carefully rolled up his sleeves. Inward, one fold at a time, up to the elbow. He stared at the bookcase in the corridor. Behind the shelves lay a room he hadn’t entered for almost twenty-one years.

Twenty-one years and summers and New Year’s mornings.

But in that room was the table.

He exhaled, groped indiscriminately for a book and pulled Orwell’s 1984 out of the bookcase. It didn’t fall apart. Nor did it bite his hand like an affronted cat.

He took out the next novel, then two more. Now he reached into the shelf with both hands, grabbed whole parcels of books out of it and piled them up beside him.

The stacks grew into trees. Towers. Magic mountains. He looked at the last book in his hand. When the Clock Struck Thirteen. A tale of time travel.

If he’d believed in omens, this would have been a sign.

He banged the bottom of the shelves with his fists to loosen them from their fastenings. Then he stepped back.

There. Layer by layer, it appeared. Behind the wall of words. The door to the room where . . .

I could simply buy a table.

Monsieur Perdu ran his hand over his mouth. Yes. Dust down the books, put them away again, forget about the door. Buy a table and carry on as he had for the last two decades. In twenty years’ time he’d be seventy, and from there he’d make it through the rest. Maybe he’d die prematurely.

Coward.

He tightened his trembling fist on the door handle.

Slowly the tall man opened the door. He pushed it softly inward, screwed up his eyes and . . .

Nothing but moonlight and dry air. He breathed it in through his nose, analyzing it, but found nothing.

——’s smell has gone.

Over the course of twenty-one summers, Monsieur Perdu had become as adept at avoiding thinking of —— as he was at stepping around open manholes.

He mainly thought of her as ——. As a pause amid the hum of his thoughts, as a blank in the pictures of the past, as a dark spot amid his feelings. He was capable of conjuring all kinds of gaps.

Monsieur Perdu looked around. How quiet the room seemed. And pale despite the lavender-blue wallpaper. The passing of the years behind the closed door had squeezed the color from the walls.

The light from the corridor met little that could cast a shadow. A bistro chair. The kitchen table. A vase with the lavender stolen two decades earlier from the Valensole plateau. And a fifty-year-old man who now sat down on the chair and wrapped his arms around himself.

There had once been curtains, and over there, pictures, flowers and books, a cat called Castor that slept on the sofa. There were candlesticks and whispering, full wineglasses and music. Dancing shadows on the wall, one of them tall, the other strikingly beautiful. There had been love in this room.

Now there’s only me.

He clenched his fists and pressed them against his burning eyes.

Monsieur Perdu swallowed and swallowed again to fight back the tears. His throat was too tight to breathe and his back seemed to glow with heat and pain.

When he could once more swallow without it hurting, Monsieur Perdu stood up and opened the casement window. Aromas came swirling in from the back courtyard.

The herbs from the Goldenbergs’ little garden. Rosemary and thyme mixed with the massage oils used by Che, the blind chiropodist and “foot whisperer.” Added to that, the smell of pancakes intermingled with Kofi’s spicy and meaty African barbecued dishes. Over it all drifted the perfume of Paris in June, the fragrance of lime blossom and expectation.

But Monsieur Perdu wouldn’t let these scents affect him. He resisted their charms. He’d become extremely good at ignoring anything that might in any way arouse feelings of yearning. Aromas. Melodies. The beauty of things.

He fetched soap and water from the storeroom next to the bare kitchen and began to clean the wooden table.

He fought off the blurry picture of himself sitting at this table, not alone but with ——.

He washed and scrubbed and ignored the piercing question of what he was meant to do now that he had opened the door to the room in which all his love, his dreams and his past had been buried.

Memories are like wolves. You can’t lock them away and hope they leave you alone.

Monsieur Perdu carried the narrow table to the door and heaved it through the bookcase, past the magic mountains of paper onto the landing and over to the apartment across the hall.

As he was about to knock, a sad sound reached his ears.

Stifled sobbing, as if through a cushion.

Someone was crying behind the green door.

A woman. And she was crying as though she wanted nobody, absolutely nobody, to hear.

2

“She was married to You-Know-Who, Monsieur Le P.”

He didn’t know. Perdu didn’t read the Paris gossip pages.

Madame Catherine Le P.-You-Know-Who had come home late one Thursday evening from her husband’s art agency, where she took care of his PR. Her key no longer fit into the lock, and there was a suitcase on the stairs with divorce papers on top of it. Her husband had moved to an unknown address and taken the old furniture and a new woman with him.

Catherine, soon-to-be-ex-wife-of-Le-Dirty-Swine, possessed nothing but the clothes she had brought into their marriage—and the realization that it had been naïve of her to think that their erstwhile love would guarantee decent treatment after their separation, and to assume that she knew her husband so well that he could no longer surprise her.

“A common mistake,” Madame Bernard, the lady of the house, had pontificated in between puffing out smoke signals from her pipe. “You only really get to know your husband when he walks out on you.”

Monsieur Perdu had not yet seen the woman who’d been so coldheartedly ejected from her own life.

Now he listened to the lonely sobs she was desperately trying to muffle, perhaps with her hands or a tea towel. Should he announce his presence and embarrass her? He decided to fetch the vase and the chair first.

He tiptoed back and forth between his flat and hers. He knew how treacherous this proud old house could be, which floorboards squeaked, which walls were more recent and thinner additions and which concealed ducts that acted like megaphones.

When he pored over his eighteen-thousand-piece map of the world jigsaw in the otherwise empty living room, the sounds of the other residents’ lives were transmitted to him through the fabric of the house.

The Goldenbergs’ arguments (Him: “Can’t you just for once . . . ? Why are you . . . ? Haven’t I . . . ?” Her: “You always have to . . . You never do . . . I want you to . . .”) He’d known the two of them as newlyweds. They’d laughed together a lot back then. Then came the children, and the parents drifted apart like continents.

He heard Clara Violette’s electric wheelchair rolling over carpet edges, wooden floors and doorsills. He remembered the young pianist back when she was able to dance.

He heard Che and young Kofi cooking. Che was stirring the pots. The man had been blind since birth, but he said that he could see the world through the fragrant trails and traces that people’s feelings and thoughts had left behind. Che could sense whether a room had been loved or lived or argued in.

Perdu also listened every Sunday to how Madame Bomme and the widows’ club giggled like girls at the dirty books he slipped them behind their stuffy relatives’ backs.

The snatches of life that could be overheard in the house at number 27 Rue Montagnard were like a sea lapping the shores of Perdu’s silent isle.

He had been listening for more than twenty years. He knew his neighbors so well that he was sometimes amazed by how little they knew about him (not that he minded). They had no idea that he owned next to no furniture apart from a bed, a chair and a clothes rail—no knickknacks, no music, no pictures or photo albums or three-piece suite or crockery (other than for himself)—or that he had chosen such simplicity of his own free will. The two rooms he still occupied were so empty that they echoed when he coughed. The only thing in the living room was the giant jigsaw puzzle on the floor. His bedroom was furnished with a bed, the ironing board, a reading light and a garment rail on wheels containing three identical sets of clothing: gray trousers, white shirt, brown V-neck sweater. In the kitchen were a stove-top coffee pot, a tin of coffee and a shelf stacked with food. Arranged in alphabetical order. Maybe it was just as well that no one saw this.

And yet he harbored a strange affection for 27 Rue Montagnard’s residents. He felt inexplicably better when he knew that they were well—and in his unassuming way he tried to make a contribution. Books were a means of helping. Otherwise he stayed in the background, a small figure in a painting, while life was played out in the foreground.

However, the new tenant on the third floor, Maximilian Jordan, wouldn’t leave Monsieur Perdu in peace. Jordan wore specially made earplugs with earmuffs over them, plus a woolly hat on cold days. Ever since the young author’s debut novel had made him famous amid great fanfare, he’d been on the run from fans who would have given their right arms to move in with him. Meanwhile, Jordan had developed a peculiar interest in Monsieur Perdu.

While Perdu was on the landing arranging the chair beside the kitchen table, and the vase on top, the crying stopped.

In its place he heard the squeak of a floorboard that someone was trying to walk across without making it creak.

He peered through the pane of frosted glass in the green door. Then he knocked twice, very gently.

A face moved closer. A blurred, bright oval.

“Yes?” the oval whispered.

“I’ve got a chair and a table for you.”

The oval said nothing.

I have to speak softly to her. She’s cried so much she’s probably all dried out and she’ll crumble if I’m too loud.

“And a vase. For flowers. Red flowers, for instance. They’d look really pretty on the white table.”

He had his cheek almost pressed up against the glass.

He whispered, “But I can give you a book as well.”

The light in the staircase went out.

“What kind of book?” the oval whispered.

“The consoling kind.”

“I need to cry some more. I’ll drown if I don’t. Can you understand that?”

“Of course. Sometimes you’re swimming in unwept tears and you’ll go under if you store them up inside.” And I’m at the bottom of a sea of tears. “I’ll bring you a book for crying then.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. Promise me you’ll have something to eat and drink before you carry on crying.”

He didn’t know why he was taking such liberties. It must be something to do with the door between them.

The glass misted up with her breath.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

When the hall light flared on again, the oval shrank back.

Monsieur Perdu laid his hand briefly on the glass where her face had been a second before.

And if she needs anything else, a chest of drawers or a potato peeler, I’ll buy it and claim I had it already.

He went into his empty flat and pushed the bolt across. The door leading into the room behind the bookcase was still open. The longer Monsieur Perdu looked in there, the more it seemed as though the summer of 1992 were rising up out of the floor. The cat jumped down from the sofa on soft, velvet paws and stretched. The sunlight caressed a bare back, the back turned and became ——. She smiled at Monsieur Perdu, rose from her reading position and walked toward him naked, with a book in her hand.

“Are you finally ready? asked ——.

Monsieur Perdu slammed the door.

No.

3

“No,” Monsieur Perdu said again the following morning. “I’d rather not sell you this book.”

Gently he pried Night from the lady’s hand. Of the many novels on his book barge—the vessel moored on the Seine that he had named Literary Apothecary—she had inexplicably chosen the notorious bestseller by Maximilian “Max” Jordan, the earmuff wearer from the third floor in Rue Montagnard.

The customer looked at the bookseller, taken aback.

“Why not?”

“Max Jordan doesn’t suit you.”

“Max Jordan doesn’t suit me?”

“That’s right. He’s not your type.”

“My type. Okay. Excuse me, but maybe I should point out to you that I’ve come to your book barge for a book. Not a husband, mon cher Monsieur.”

“With all due respect, what you read is more important in the long term than the man you marry, ma chère Madame.”

She looked at him through eyes like slits.

“Give me the book, take my money, and we can both pretend it’s a nice day.”

“It is a nice day, and tomorrow is the start of summer, but you’re not going to get this book. Not from me. May I suggest a few others?”

“Right, and flog me some old classic you’re too lazy to throw overboard where it can poison the fish?” She spoke softly to begin with, but her volume kept increasing.

“Books aren’t eggs, you know. Simply because a book has aged a bit doesn’t mean it’s gone bad.” There was now an edge to Monsieur Perdu’s voice too. “What is wrong with old? Age isn’t a disease. We all grow old, even books. But are you, is anyone, worth less, or less important, because they’ve been around for longer?”

“It’s absurd how you’re twisting everything, all because you don’t want me to have that stupid Night book.”

The customer—or rather noncustomer—tossed her purse into her luxury shoulder bag and tugged at the zip, which got stuck. 

Perdu felt something welling up inside him, a wild feeling, anger, tension—only it had nothing to do with this woman. He couldn’t hold his tongue, though. He hurried after her as she strode angrily through the belly of the book barge and called out to her in the half-light between the long bookshelves: “It’s your choice, Madame! You can leave and spit on me. Or you can spare yourself thousands of hours of torture starting right now.”

“Thanks, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“Surrender to the treasures of books instead of entering into pointless relationships with men, who neglect you anyway, or going on crazy diets because you’re not thin enough for one man and not stupid enough for the next.”

“It’s absurd how you’re twisting everything, all because you don’t want me to have that stupid Night book.”

The customer—or rather noncustomer—tossed her purse into her luxury shoulder bag and tugged at the zip, which got stuck.

Perdu felt something welling up inside him, a wild feeling, anger, tension—only it had nothing to do with this woman. He couldn’t hold his tongue, though. He hurried after her as she strode angrily through the belly of the book barge and called out to her in the half-light between the long bookshelves: “It’s your choice, Madame! You can leave and spit on me. Or you can spare yourself thousands of hours of torture starting right now.”

“Thanks, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“Surrender to the treasures of books instead of entering into pointless relationships with men, who neglect you anyway, or going on crazy diets because you’re not thin enough for one man and not stupid enough for the next.”

She stood stock-still by the large bay window that looked out over the Seine, and glared at Perdu. “How dare you!”

“Books keep stupidity at bay. And vain hopes. And vain men. They undress you with love, strength and knowledge. It’s love from within. Make your choice: book or . . .”

Before he could finish his sentence, a Parisian pleasure boat plowed past with a group of Chinese women standing by the railing under umbrellas. They began clicking away with their cameras when they caught sight of Paris’s famous floating Literary Apothecary. The pleasure boat drove brown-green dunes of water against the bank, and the book barge reeled.

The customer teetered on her smart high heels, but instead of offering her his hand, Perdu handed her The Elegance of the Hedgehog.

She made an instinctive grab for the novel and clung to it.

Perdu held on to the book as he spoke to the stranger in a soothing, tender and calm voice.

“You need your own room. Not too bright, with a kitten to keep you company. And this book, which you will please read slowly, so you can take the occasional break. You’ll do a lot of thinking and probably a bit of crying. For yourself. For the years. But you’ll feel better afterward. You’ll know that now you don’t have to die, even if that’s how it feels because the guy didn’t treat you well. And you will like yourself again and won’t find yourself ugly or naïve.”

Only after delivering these instructions did he let go.

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4.2 out of 54.2 out of 5
4,324 global ratings

Top reviews from the United States

terickson
1.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Sorry, I did not like this book
Reviewed in the United States on September 22, 2018
Why do people like this book so much? It''s dreadful. It''s really chick-lit soft porn fantasy, but not done well. The story line is so unrealistic that I couldn''t lose myself in the novel, and the characters are one dimensional and never came alive for me. They''re also... See more
Why do people like this book so much? It''s dreadful. It''s really chick-lit soft porn fantasy, but not done well. The story line is so unrealistic that I couldn''t lose myself in the novel, and the characters are one dimensional and never came alive for me. They''re also not remotely interesting or likeable. I plodded through the whole book because I kept thinking it had to get better because of all the great reviews, but nope. Really really awful.
74 people found this helpful
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SassyPants
2.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
If a book is like medicine, this one was hard to swallow
Reviewed in the United States on May 8, 2017
I''m not sure how I can so strongly dislike a book that contains so many of the things I love: books, a bookstore, a book seller, France, and food. And it is a loving ode to books. This started out promising and was sprinkled with some good moments, but I forced myself to... See more
I''m not sure how I can so strongly dislike a book that contains so many of the things I love: books, a bookstore, a book seller, France, and food. And it is a loving ode to books. This started out promising and was sprinkled with some good moments, but I forced myself to finish it. Every few chapters I wanted to stop. I must admit that I have been in a reading slump. I have not liked the last four books that I have read.

Jean Pardue (John Lost--get it?) is a book seller with a broken heart. The love of his life, Manon, walked out on him over twenty years ago. She left a letter, which he put in a drawer unread. Then he sealed up her favorite room in his apartment and went on with his unhappy life. He owns a bookstore that is located on a moored barge. He has a special intuition for matching the perfect book to a person. He uses books to heal other people''s emotions, but not his own. In helping a new neighbor, Jean ends up reading Manon''s letter. He is gutted and decides to pull anchor and pilot his barge to her hometown. Like one of those road trip comedy movies, Jean picks up various emotionally wounded passengers along the way. I did not care for this plot line and sadly it takes up most of the book. I don''t think it is a spoiler to say that Jean (and everyone he encounters on his journey) find whatever emotional peace they are looking for. The book is also interspersed with Manon''s travel diary, which gives some insight into her and her choices.

People describe the writing in this book as beautiful and poetic. I found it to be too flowery and emotionally overwrought. There is a heavy dose of romance in this book, which is not my favorite genre. The story is also long--almost 400 pages--and was in want of some good editing. I also found the ending too neat, tidy, and happy to be believable. I don''t want to be too specific, as that would be a spoiler, but Jean''s blossoming relationship with Manon''s family is just ridiculous. Who are these sainted people? There was an excerpt of the author''s new book at the end. I did not read it. Maybe I am just a jaded and cranky old bat, but I did not enjoy this book.
257 people found this helpful
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Cynthia Cooks
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
A Journey on the River Seine
Reviewed in the United States on February 24, 2017
This was a lovely read. I couldn''t put it down, and I can''t say enough good about it. We read it for book club and everyone enjoyed the book. Although it''s not the book for everyone, ten ladies in Houston embraced a trip with Jean Perdu on a bookstore barge for a... See more
This was a lovely read. I couldn''t put it down, and I can''t say enough good about it. We read it for book club and everyone enjoyed the book.

Although it''s not the book for everyone, ten ladies in Houston embraced a trip with Jean Perdu on a bookstore barge for a spirited and spirit-filled journey on the Seine River in France. It was filled with romance, regret, love lost and love gained, excitement, the thrill of passion, beauty, history etc., all the ingredients needed for an intriguing tale. The characters have depth, they''re lovable and they hold a place in/for the story. There''s mystery throughout and it all ties up in a neat package at the happy, yet teary, ending. The book gives plenty of food for thought about what we really want/need in life and what''s really important.

The book is trimmed in that there were no loose ends or unnecessary characters. Like a puzzle, everything and everyone was in the story for a good reason. The book left me feeling good about life in general and how much I appreciate and love the friends, family and people around me. "The Little Paris Bookshop" was translated into 27 different languages, and I can certainly see why.

Cynthia Cooks/Author
69 people found this helpful
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Jack B. Rochester
4.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
A Literary Adventure for Literature Lovers
Reviewed in the United States on December 4, 2017
This novel was recommended to me by one of the baristas at FictionalCafe.com and it was one of the most thoroughly entertaining books I''ve read. Although translated from German, the writing has a lyrical quality that is like a floral bouquet''s fragrance in a slight breeze.... See more
This novel was recommended to me by one of the baristas at FictionalCafe.com and it was one of the most thoroughly entertaining books I''ve read. Although translated from German, the writing has a lyrical quality that is like a floral bouquet''s fragrance in a slight breeze. Of course, the subject is one near and dear to any writer''s heart: a bookstore! And this bookstore is a houseboat on the Seine, docked in the heart of Paris! What''s not to love about that?

As in any good story, there is a call to adventure when M. Perdu, owner of the barge-bookstore he has named the "Literary Apothecary" - his passion is prescribing a book to cure what ails - shoves off in search of something he lost several decades earlier. The adventure still lives in my memory, although I finished this novel a year and a half ago. Please read it. It''s just wonderful.
23 people found this helpful
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Kat
1.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Disappointing
Reviewed in the United States on September 1, 2016
This book sounded so cute and I really wanted to like it: a book about a literary nerd living in France is as good as it gets for me. However it felt really forced for me. I felt myself constantly thinking about the authors decisions and incapable of actually getting lost... See more
This book sounded so cute and I really wanted to like it: a book about a literary nerd living in France is as good as it gets for me. However it felt really forced for me. I felt myself constantly thinking about the authors decisions and incapable of actually getting lost in the story. I am a fan of injecting feminist ideas into media, but some of the scenarios of female empowerment and allowing men to have emotion felt completely forced and unnatural to the progression of the story. I keep trying to pick it up and force myself to read the rest for that one point where it gets good but it just doesn''t. Also, the stupidity of the characters is mind numbing. Most novels have self unaware characters to some degree and you can see their flaws before they can, that''s part of the fun when they discover and work on their flaws. But to have obsessed over a woman for 20 years, kept a room that reminded him of her sealed up during all that time, never even asking her why she disappeared, still unable to cope at the thought of her as a grown ass man in his 50s left me scratching my head. That is a level of unrealistic I just can''t really get on board with. He''s so stupid about it and about the obvious love interest he''s "meant to be" with that it''s just annoying, as opposed to charming. Really cute idea but poorly executed.
125 people found this helpful
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BKZOE
3.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Not really a book about a book store - instead an average book about lost love and regret.
Reviewed in the United States on February 16, 2020
This had such promise for me but then fell flat. It started off interesting and had some quick twist right off the bat. I thought this would turn into a sweet love story where the connection of reading and loss would heal the two lovers, and their regrets over wasted time,... See more
This had such promise for me but then fell flat. It started off interesting and had some quick twist right off the bat. I thought this would turn into a sweet love story where the connection of reading and loss would heal the two lovers, and their regrets over wasted time, but the middle of the book ruined it. It was so disjointed and became tedious. It was almost as if the author couldn’t decide what she was writing about and in the last 1/4 of the book got back to the love story, with an occasional mention of a book here or there.
Plus I found the 20 year angst of Jean and then the continued agony after he read the letter, to be overdone and irritating. I wanted to slap him about 15 years earlier and say for God sakes man, snap out of it. And although the story probably would not have worked without this fact,I kept thinking, who the hell keeps a letter for 21 years and doesn’t read it? I also could not figure out what the heck the scene about the deer was all about. It seemed inserted for shock value.
The book did have some sweet, sad and promising moments, expressions/quotes. If you have ever had your heart broken or had a loved one die, which is most of us, you will tear up and become a bit melancholy, but it wasn’t enough to save it for me, since I was so hoping it would be great.
4 people found this helpful
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Claudia
3.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Only if you enjoy French excess
Reviewed in the United States on November 28, 2015
It seems the author thought to herself, "Hmmmm...how can I get the greatest number of readers?" I know how, now: into a tale of tragic love, recovery, and redemption, she mixes an adventure on a barge going south from Paris on the Seine; a condensed tour guide of the... See more
It seems the author thought to herself, "Hmmmm...how can I get the greatest number of readers?" I know how, now: into a tale of tragic love, recovery, and redemption, she mixes an adventure on a barge going south from Paris on the Seine; a condensed tour guide of the Provençal and Luberon regions; and a compendium of pseudo-wisdom. She even adds recipes and a reading list. Her protagonist is the stoic but sensitive philosopher, Jean Perdue ("Lost John"), who sells books as cures for ailments of the human psyche. Joining him is a young man who is horrified by the smashing success of his recent, first book. Later, an Italian jack-of-all-trades, who happens to be an excellent cook, joins the two. At the end, of course, there is a vineyard--and the resolution to Jean''s tale of lost love for the beautiful and perfect Manon. And there we have it: the confluence that makes the story. If you like reading still another over-rich novel that features Provence, good cuisine, advice on everything from love to garlic, and the French tendency toward quirky characters and excess of language, read this book. Otherwise, spend your time reading Don Quixote, the first and best example of the knight-errant tale.
26 people found this helpful
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G. Messersmith
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
I Fell in Love with this Book
Reviewed in the United States on July 15, 2015
Monsieur Perdu owns a floating bookstore aboard a barge located on the Seine. From this bookstore he can prescribe just the perfect book to allay someone''s fears, problems, and/or grief - that he is he can fix everyone''s but his own. Twenty-one years earlier the love of... See more
Monsieur Perdu owns a floating bookstore aboard a barge located on the Seine. From this bookstore he can prescribe just the perfect book to allay someone''s fears, problems, and/or grief - that he is he can fix everyone''s but his own. Twenty-one years earlier the love of his life left him and left him only a letter, which he never read, and he has never seen her again. He has been heartbroken ever since. He finally reads the letter and so sets sail for the south of France with a young, famous author on board, who is hiding from his fame. Then once on their travels they pick up an Italian chef. The journey these men make is described as both internal and external, sometimes together, sometimes apart. Believe me you will be moved by their journey.

This novel is enchanting, warm, and filled with memorable characters. There are so many beautiful literary quotes in this book anyone who loves to read will be delighted by it, not to mention the wonderful quotes about the power of reading. Further the French countryside is alive and beautiful as rendered by George. She is a wonderful wordsmith.

The only regret I have about this novel is that I do not have a hard copy only a digital one. For if I had a hard copy I would return to many passages over and over again. This is a beautiful novel.
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Top reviews from other countries

K
2.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Started well but overall didn''t enjoy
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on May 15, 2016
I loved the initial chapters before they set sail - an original idea, intriguing plot and really enjoyed the characters painted. After that I found the story irritating and just wanted to finish. For me, such a shame it didn''t carry on as it has started.
17 people found this helpful
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English Voodoo
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Quaint Parisian Adventure
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on June 8, 2015
Not my normal kind of book, but one I was drawn to in a shop and inspired to treat myself to a copy. Something about the literary apothecary idea and treating peoples maladies with books certainly seemed like a lovely idea. There is a lot more to the story than that though,...See more
Not my normal kind of book, but one I was drawn to in a shop and inspired to treat myself to a copy. Something about the literary apothecary idea and treating peoples maladies with books certainly seemed like a lovely idea. There is a lot more to the story than that though, as the tale follows the life of Mr Perdu as he slowly comes back to life after a 20 year pause that has seen a self imposed wallowing stop him from moving on from the mysterious ending of a love affair. As the tale weaves itself, we find out all about his lost love and how he came to be how he is. We also find out how to restart a life and heal old wounds with adventure and friendship, as a band of unlikely friends join Mr Perdu on his boat and slowly find themselves dealing with what has held them all back. This is a lovely little story with plenty of humour and intelligent ideas that is perfect for someone who likes something a little different. Well written and aimed at a book reading audience, this is a little escape to the French waterways that is a joy to join.
19 people found this helpful
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Amazon Customer
4.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Beautifully descriptive
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on December 10, 2017
Interesting novel, which managed to keep my interest and not exactly what I thought it was going to be. I felt a bit uncomfortable with getting very intimate with the main character very quickly when to start with he was almost at arm''s length. Once over that, the book and...See more
Interesting novel, which managed to keep my interest and not exactly what I thought it was going to be. I felt a bit uncomfortable with getting very intimate with the main character very quickly when to start with he was almost at arm''s length. Once over that, the book and I settled down a bit and jogged along quite nicely. The descriptions of the French countryside are wonderful, and the food. I wouldn''t have said I like the book that much to start with but I did by the end.
5 people found this helpful
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S.M. Johnson
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Enchanting
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on September 12, 2020
The Little Paris Bookshop - what a lovely name for a novel. But it isn''t. It has been and we are told the history of Jean Perdu''s time running this bookshop in Paris. But the bookshop is on a barge on the Seine and as we join the story the barge leaves it moorings and sets...See more
The Little Paris Bookshop - what a lovely name for a novel. But it isn''t. It has been and we are told the history of Jean Perdu''s time running this bookshop in Paris. But the bookshop is on a barge on the Seine and as we join the story the barge leaves it moorings and sets off down the Seine. So we are told stories of things that happen on board and also things that happen at the places they tie up along the way and the people they meet. Oh yes, and there is also a very old love story woven in..... it is an enchanting book - the descriptions are very vivid and there is a wonderfully romantic feeling of France throughout. Unusual, individual and enchanting.
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GreenInk
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
An incongruous title for such a wonderful book
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on August 30, 2021
It may seem slightly odd to take issue with the title of a book, but I do so only in case anyone may be put off by what appears to be a rather twee subject matter. Yes there is a small Paris Bookshop in the book, but it provides only a backdrop to a far more substantial...See more
It may seem slightly odd to take issue with the title of a book, but I do so only in case anyone may be put off by what appears to be a rather twee subject matter. Yes there is a small Paris Bookshop in the book, but it provides only a backdrop to a far more substantial story. The main characters set off for differing reasons on a journey by narrow boat (the eponymous Bookshop) along the rivers and canals of France and the reader is invited to travel with them. There is a searching of a past and a searching for a future and the present intrudes too. I really enjoyed this book of love and friendship which is beautifully and thoughtfully written.
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The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale

The new arrival Little Paris Bookshop: A outlet sale Novel online sale