The Berlin bookshop that refuses to die

How Saint George's survived Amazon, e-readers, the pandemic, and Brexit.

Photo via @saintgeorgesbookshop

Losing Saint George’s would finally settle, for me, the question of whether Berlin was over. Take anything, dear market forces, but the neighbourhood bookshop. What about one of the countless carbon-copy Asian fusion restaurants? Or the latest outpost of that parasitic venture-backed coffee chain?

Good thing books are flying off the shelves. If no one’s reading anymore, that’s news to Paul Gurner. “We’re not experiencing it,” he says. “We’re flourishing.”

Paul opened Saint George’s English Bookshop in 2003 knowing nothing about the book business. His only experience had been a failed investment in one, which left him stranded with 10,000 books. Instead of selling them at markets in the UK, where the books were, he shipped them to Berlin, where he had been living since 2000. At that time, Americans in West Berlin were following cheap flats east into Prenzlauer Berg, which 13 years prior had lain across the border of a different country. There was no English bookstore in the neighbourhood, so Paul opened one.

That Saint George’s has been flourishing for 23 years is remarkable if not miraculous. "We've been through a lot,” Paul says, recalling events of the last seven years. First, there was Brexit, which increased shipping prices by 400%. "Then right after Brexit Ukraine happened—well, no, that dickhead in Russia happened.” And on top of all that came the pandemic. Still, revenue held steady. "We have the best customers, I must say. It makes it very easy to run a bookshop. We have a very minor percentage of people who are a pain in the ass.”

Paul has watched bookshops that predated his shutter, and others blink in and out within just a few years. He wants to be a bookshop for everyone, and believes owners who press their politics too hard through their stock tend not to last. “I’d like to think we’re more left-leaning, but that’s not what people come in here for,” he says. He carries Houellebecq and Hoover and Pappé and Luxenberg, but not Mein Kampf, which he considers irredeemably incendiary. As for stocking Hillbilly Elegy (JD Vance), Paul would “rather somebody buy it used than give that dickhead any more money.” Ditto Neil Gaiman.

(Paul only said 'dickhead’ twice in our conversation; that both instances have appeared here may slightly overstate his fondness for the word).

Paul doesn’t radiate the unbridled joy of those who find fulfillment in their work. But he is dryly content. He speaks in a language of emotional economy: “can’t complain,” “not bad, really,” “keeps me occupied.” In that sense, he’s very English. He left school at 15, worked as a photographer, and ran a furniture business. His literary education was entirely DIY. “I remember really late, somebody said, ‘What, you’ve never heard of Pynchon?’” He learned on the job, guided by what his customers are curious about.

In Berlin, one such curiosity is Christiane F. (Wir Kinder vom Bahnhof Zoo), the 1978 autobiography of a child prostitute and heroin addict in West Berlin. It was last printed in 2012. “We get asked for it all the time,” Paul says. “Someone should take it on. I’ve suggested it to NYRB. We’d be able to sell it every week.”

Leslie Feinberg’s Stone Butch Blues was another precious gem that came up. Paul explained that Feinberg – who, in addition to being a famous butch lesbian and transgender activist, was also a communist – didn't want the book commercially republished after her death. It’s now issued by her foundation, with proceeds staying within the estate. He had five new copies perched atop a shelf, beyond the reach of children. “They're really nicely printed.”

I asked if people care about that. "Absolutely. Look at this.” He handed me two identical-looking copies of Miranda July's All Fours, both new. The American one was nice and supple, like it was made of Egyptian cotton. It felt well-oiled, while the British one felt like it was printed by Temu—brittle spine; riffling through it stiff and jerky. "American publishing is just nicer. The feel, the font … I don't know, it's just something.” I held the books for a minute or so, appreciating the something.

Has there been a book that’s changed him? “Not really. The Drinker, maybe. It changed my habit of drinking toward not drinking.”

I hadn’t heard of it. A self-help book? “No. Christ, no. No, no, no. It’s about a small businessman that drinks himself out of business. It’s fiction.” Crazy how fiction can do that, I said. Most people would probably reach for The Big Book and 12-step their way to sobriety. “I didn’t have an issue, but it put a perspective on my life. You know, you have to keep control of things, especially with a kid around. And the business is just like another child. This is the third child I never knew I wanted.”

More than once, we returned to the topic of electric vehicles. “The van can do 400 kilometres on the first charge and about 300 per charge after that,” Paul told me. Battery range is critical to his operations. Every two months, he drives from Berlin to the U.K. to load up on used books—about a ton in total, or 2,000 titles. He handpicks them himself. “I know what will sell … Dostoevsky, obviously … Murakami, Paul Auster, Zadie Smith … things go round and round … Alexanderplatz, which wasn’t available in a good translation when we opened.” (It has since gotten the Hoffman treatment). I ask if he’s seen the 14-part Fassbinder production. “We showed it here as a film night. There was a 24-hour documentary on Berlin and we showed the entire thing. But we stopped doing events. The shop’s just too busy.”

Last year, Paul spent €250,000 on new books, and €50k more on used. On his shelves, used books outnumber new roughly eight to one. “I want people to be able to pick up a book for four or five euros,” he says. He laments the rise of e-readers and e-commerce but he’s positioned the shop to stay largely untouched by their pull, and rejects convenient excuses. “Just because you’ve not got it right, you can’t blame Amazon,” he says. If a customer wants a book, Paul will have it in store in a few days, usually priced within a euro of Amazon. Overcharging, he says, is precisely what drives people to shop online. It also helps that books are one thing people are willing to wait a little longer for.

Despite the platform’s sales and advertising benefits, Saint George’s no longer sells on Amazon. It became too bureaucratic. “Whether it a was moral stand or a hassle stand...,” Paul was saying, before I interrupted with a remark about how decisions tend to look nobler in hindsight. But Paul does care about buying the right way. “When you choose Amazon, you’re supporting shareholders of a company that doesn’t pay taxes ... it annoys me when I have to buy something online because we live in a city where you can get most things.”

Lonely Planet is another platform whose usual advantages Paul has chosen to forgo. In 2012, Saint George’s was featured in one of its travel guides. It was fated to be like this place in Paris, he says. “Just the amount of people wanting to buy a bag and not a book ... they were only interested in posing in the shop.” The following year, Paul asked Lonely Planet to de-list his shop. “I want to be the village bookshop, not a destination or a thing. The majority of our customers live in town and see us as a viable way of getting their books.” Still, he says he's happy when people climb the ladders and snap a photo. Surely rare, I thought. "Every day,” he said.

In reality, Paul is more reserved than my choice of quotes so far may indicate. He answers thoughtfully and only speaks ill of those who deserve it, like the drivers who peacock their garish rented supercars through his neighbourhood. His reluctance to draw attention partly explains why he drives an electric. “It’s pretty hideous,” he says of his Leaf.

Paul isn't interested in being rich. “I’m happy being comfortable.” Expansion – another location or a bigger space – doesn’t appeal to him either. He's in the shop 15 hours a week and spends the rest of his time managing it remotely. “I work hard and don’t feel guilty about earning a decent wage from it.” Much of what he earns goes back into local businesses—a point he emphasized with another well-earned dig at Amazon.

I can tell community is important to Paul. “You take packages, take keys for people. You let people dump their stuff here from time to time.” Over the years, kids of former customers have grown up to become customers themselves. One woman who came into the shop is now his girlfriend. When I suggest he has the best job in the world, he replies, “No—the best job would be to actually work here.” (Saint George’s is currently not hiring).

I was eager to cast Paul as a sort of shaman who prescribes potent things that, once consumed, allow people to authentically say they were never the same again. And I suppose he does do that, though most people arrive with a clear idea of what they want. Paul was telling me this when a woman came in and said, “Can you just give me a good fictional book?” He laughed and she elaborated: “I had a kid and so I haven’t read a book for so long. I just need something easy but not stupid.” He guided her around several shelves before ultimately suggesting something by Paul Beatty.

When he returned, he said, “There’s something I’ve realized. I’ve waited too long to do anything else. Do you know what I mean? I’m stuck with this, and it’s not a bad thing, but I’ve been doing it for 23 years and will maybe do it another 15 years and then that’s it. People say, Oh, it’s a great job, but I’ve never done anything else, never had that sabbatical year travelling. These days, people have very dynamic lives. I’m doing the same thing day in and day out, month in and month out. I spend all my time on the shop.”

That’s business. Doing something well for years comes at the cost of doing many other things. Appropriately bookish in appearance (he wears glasses), Paul is first and foremost a savvy entrepreneur who happens to sell books. “I don’t read anywhere near as much as I should,” he admits. And perhaps Saint George’s thrives not in spite of, but because of, Paul’s lack of literary zeal. Instead of imposing his own taste, he stocks what readers actually want.

As our conversation wound down, two young students arrived to interview Paul for a school assignment. We had been chatting for two hours, and the next day he was driving to England for a book haul. Still, he welcomed the chance to talk with the aspiring journalists. I stayed long enough to catch the first question, about whether Paul had always cared about books. “I do now,” he said.