Olivia: Jackson, if you had to categorize me as a bookshop customer, using a mock-Latin scientific name, what would my species be? Jackson: Oh, that's easy. Femina qui coffeam emit sed libros neglegit. The Woman Who Buys Coffee But Neglects the Books. Olivia: Brutal! And probably far too accurate. That is exactly the kind of savage, witty, and oddly precise classification we are diving into today. It’s a mindset that perfectly captures the spirit of our book. Jackson: I'm already in. A book that gives me permission to humorously judge people in public spaces? Sign me up. What is it? Olivia: We are talking about Seven Kinds of People You Find in Bookshops by Shaun Bythell. And what makes this so brilliant is that Bythell isn't just some armchair observer inventing categories. He owns The Bookshop in Wigtown, which is Scotland's official National Book Town. He is on the front lines of the book trade every single day, and believe me, he has seen it all. Jackson: So this is less of a humorous essay collection and more of a field report from the trenches. It’s anthropological. He’s like the Jane Goodall of grumpy book nerds. Olivia: Exactly. And his writing has been described as "virtuosic venting" tempered with "bursts of sweetness." He's built this whole persona around being a curmudgeonly, slightly misanthropic bookseller, but as we're about to find out, there's a surprisingly soft heart beating under that grumpy exterior. Jackson: Okay, the "grumpy philosopher" trope. I'm intrigued. Where do we even begin with a taxonomy of humanity?

Olivia: Well, we start with the central question the book raises about its own author: Is Shaun Bythell genuinely a misanthrope who dislikes his customers, or is this grumpy persona a kind of armor? Jackson: That’s the key, isn't it? Because if he genuinely hates everyone who walks in, the book is just mean. But if it's a performance, it's comedy. It all depends on the intent. Olivia: Precisely. And he gives us the answer right in the introduction, with these incredibly moving stories that completely reframe the entire book. He wrote this during the 2020 lockdowns, when his shop was forced to close and his income vanished overnight. He was, like many small business owners, facing a real crisis. Jackson: A tough time for any retail business, but for an independent bookshop in a tiny town in Scotland, that must have been terrifying. Olivia: It was. And in the middle of this, he gets a phone call. A customer wants to order one of his earlier books. The total comes to eighteen pounds with postage. The customer then says, "Can you add an extra ten pounds to that?" Jackson: Huh. Why? Just a tip? Olivia: Bythell was confused too, so he asked. And the customer’s reply just floors me. He said, and I'm quoting here, "Because I know how hard this time must be for businesses like yours, and I want you to still be there when all of this is over, so that I can come and visit the shop again." Jackson: Wow. Okay. That is… not what I was expecting from a book that has a chapter on "The Bore." That’s incredibly thoughtful. It’s a small act, but it’s pure community. It’s saying, "I value this place, and I want it to survive." Olivia: It gets even more emotional. A short time later, he receives a letter. Inside is a cheque from a total stranger, a woman he's never met. She had read an article by the author Margaret Atwood, who was encouraging people to support their local independent businesses. This woman looked up his shop and sent him money, asking for nothing in return except that he cash the cheque. Jackson: That's amazing. From a complete stranger. It’s one thing for a regular to show support, but for someone with no connection to do that… it speaks volumes. Olivia: And this is where we see the real Shaun Bythell. He writes about these moments with such raw emotion. He has this incredible line: "The kindness of strangers can reduce you to your knees in a sobbing mess faster than a well-aimed punch to the solar plexus." Jackson: Okay, so the grumpiness is definitely a front. It’s a shield. He’s a big softie who’s been deeply moved by the very people he spends the rest of the book gently mocking. That actually makes the humor work so much better. It gives it heart. Olivia: It does. It gives him the license to be cynical, because he’s established his underlying humanity. But that brings up the big critique of the book, which many readers have pointed out. Is it actually fair for him to stereotype his own customers, the very people who keep his business alive? He even has a quote to defend himself: "Generalizations are unfair, but so is life. Suck it up." Jackson: I can see how that would rub some people the wrong way. It feels a bit like, "I'll take your money, and I'll also make fun of you in my next bestseller." But at the same time, anyone who has ever worked in retail, or any service job, knows that customers fall into types. You see the same behaviors over and over. He’s just the one brave enough, or grumpy enough, to write it all down. Olivia: And he’s self-aware about it. He admits his mock-Linnaean system of classification is flawed and that people are more complex than his categories. But he does it for the sake of humor and, I think, a shared sense of recognition. He knows that we’ll see ourselves, our friends, or our annoying relatives in these pages. Jackson: Right, it’s a form of connection through shared frustration. It’s like a secret handshake for book lovers and retail survivors. Okay, so his heart's in the right place, even if his tone is curmudgeonly. Let's meet some of these "species." Give me one of the most memorable ones.

Olivia: Alright, let's dive into the zoo. One of my favorite genera is Homo qui desidet—The Loiterer. These are the people who are in the shop but not really for the purpose of buying a book. Jackson: Ah, the time-killers. The people using the bookshop as a free waiting room before their dentist appointment. I know them well. Olivia: Exactly. And within this genus, there's a particularly challenging species: Homo qui librum suum edidit—The Self-Published Author. Jackson: Oh no. I can feel the awkwardness from here. This is the person who wants you to stock their book, isn't it? The one they wrote for their grandchildren about their cat's adventures. Olivia: You have no idea. He tells this story about a woman he calls Amanda, who corners one of his staff members, Gillian. Bythell notices Gillian looks distressed, trapped behind the counter. He goes over to rescue her, and Gillian makes a run for it, leaving him to face Amanda alone. Jackson: The classic retail hand-off. "Sorry, my manager can help you with that!" and then you vanish into the stockroom. Olivia: It was a complete ambush. Amanda then launches into this long, rambling, and completely unintelligible pitch for her book. It’s a story involving the Knights Templar, fairies, ancient monks, her previous career at a bank, and her travels around the world. Bythell is just stuck there, nodding politely, for what feels like an eternity. Jackson: This is my worst nightmare. You can't be rude, but every second that passes is a second of your life you'll never get back. How did he get away? Olivia: He didn't. Gillian had to save him again. After about twenty minutes of this monologue, she starts walking around the shop, very deliberately switching off the lights, one by one, and closing the doors. It was the universal signal for "Please, for the love of all that is holy, leave now." Jackson: (Laughs) That is brilliantly passive-aggressive. I love it. It’s the retail equivalent of a stage manager pulling the curtain. It’s so relatable, that feeling of being held hostage by someone’s passion project. Olivia: It is! And that’s the genius of his observations. They are specific, but the feeling is universal. But okay, that's an annoying loiterer. You also get the funny-weird ones. For that, we have to look at another species in the same genus: Homo qui opera erotica legit—The Erotica Browser. Jackson: Okay, now we're talking. This feels like it has potential for some real comedy. Olivia: He notes that these are often elderly men who are a bit furtive about it, or giggling teenagers. But the best story comes from a case of mistaken identity, or rather, mistaken dust jackets. A customer had swapped the cover of a racy book with a very boring one to hide what they were looking at. Jackson: A classic move. The old switcheroo. Olivia: So, a woman comes into the shop. She’s looking for a retirement gift for her husband, who is a huge enthusiast of Victorian industrial architecture. A very specific niche. Jackson: As one is. Nothing says "happy retirement, darling" like a detailed history of 19th-century sewage systems. Olivia: Bythell directs her to a book he thinks is perfect: Great Western Branch Line Termini by Paul Karau. It sounds incredibly dull, but it's exactly what her husband would love. The woman buys it, wraps it up, and presents it to him at his retirement party. Jackson: I feel a disaster coming. Olivia: The husband opens his gift, thanks his wife, and later, in private, he opens the book. But when he gets past the dust jacket, he discovers the book is not, in fact, about railway stations. It's Helen Kaplan’s The Illustrated Manual of Sex Therapy. Jackson: (Laughing) Oh, no! From branch line termini to… other kinds of termini. What a plot twist! I can just imagine the conversation that followed. "Honey, I didn't know you were into… Gothic revival architecture this much." Olivia: The wife was furious! She stormed back into the shop a few days later, absolutely livid with Bythell, as if it were his fault. It’s such a perfect, absurd little drama. It captures the quiet, strange things that happen in the corners of a bookshop. Jackson: It really does. These stories are hilarious, but they also feel a bit like a lament. It seems like the truly interesting, quirky customers are a dying breed. Olivia: You’ve hit on the most profound part of the book. For all the funny and frustrating customers, there's one type Bythell truly misses, and he dedicates the end of the book to them.

Olivia: He calls them Cliens perfectus—The Perfect Customer. And he says they are becoming vanishingly rare. Jackson: The Perfect Customer. What does that even mean? Someone who doesn't complain and pays full price? Olivia: It's more than that. The Perfect Customer is someone who loves books, of course, but more importantly, they love the hunt. They love the physical experience of being in a bookshop. They are the person for whom, as he puts it, "a day spent in a second-hand bookshop was a day well spent." They don't come in with a specific book in mind; they come in to discover something. Jackson: Ah, the browser. The person who gets lost in the aisles for an hour and comes out with a book on a topic they didn't even know they were interested in. I can see why a bookseller would love that person. It’s someone who trusts the shop’s curation. Olivia: Exactly. And he argues this type of customer is being replaced by a generation focused on convenience. People who know what they want, go to an online retailer, click a button, and have it arrive the next day. The magic of serendipity is gone. Jackson: And that’s a direct shot at Amazon, which I know from his other books is his great nemesis. Isn't he the guy who famously takes a shotgun to Amazon Kindles for fun? Olivia: He is! He uploads videos of it. It's a playful, symbolic protest, but it comes from a very real place of concern. He sees the rise of digital convenience as a threat not just to his business, but to a whole culture of reading and discovery. Jackson: But what are we actually losing? Is it just nostalgia for dusty old shops? The world moves on. Isn't this just the equivalent of a blacksmith complaining about the automobile? Olivia: I think Bythell would say we're losing a "third place." Not home, not work, but a community space where people can gather, explore, and have unexpected encounters, both with books and with other people. You don't get the story of the swapped dust jacket from an algorithm. You don't get the unsolicited lecture from the cyber-security bore. You don't get the quiet kindness of a stranger sending a cheque. Jackson: That’s a really good point. An algorithm can recommend another book "based on your recent purchases," but it can't create an experience. It can't foster a community. The shop itself is the product, not just the books in it. Olivia: And that's the book's final, powerful message. He quotes another bookseller, Roy Harley Lewis, who wrote that the goal isn't to be a crusader, aggressively selling books. The goal is to create "a public more aware of antiquarian books" through "a discreet word here and a sharing of excitement there." It's about cultivating a shared passion. Jackson: So, in the end, the grumpy bookseller is actually an evangelist. He’s just doing it in his own, very Scottish, very cynical way. He’s trying to preserve the magic of the place, even if it means putting up with all the weird, wonderful, and infuriating people who wander through his doors.

Olivia: That’s the perfect way to put it. This book, on the surface, is a light, humorous, and sometimes scathing collection of anecdotes. It’s a fun, quick read. But underneath, it’s a deeply passionate defense of a fading way of life. It’s a love letter to the physical bookshop and all its messy, unpredictable humanity. Jackson: He’s not just cataloging customers; he’s cataloging what makes a bookshop special. It’s the chaos, the randomness, the human element. The "Expert" who knows too much, the "Loiterer" who knows too little, and the "Perfect Customer" who is just open to the experience. They are all part of the ecosystem. Olivia: And by showing us this ecosystem, he’s making a case for its preservation. He’s reminding us that a world of algorithmic perfection and one-click convenience might be efficient, but it’s also sterile. We lose the texture, the stories, the chance for genuine, unscripted connection. Jackson: It really makes you think, what kind of bookshop customer are you? Are you the Expert, the Loiterer, the Not-So-Silent Traveller, or maybe, just maybe, the Perfect Customer? I think we all have a little bit of each in us, depending on the day. Olivia: I think so too. And we’d love to hear your stories. What's the funniest or weirdest thing you've ever seen in a bookshop? Find us on social media and tell us your story, and which of Bythell's "species" you think you are. Jackson: I have a feeling we're going to get some great responses. This book is a mirror, and it's both hilarious and a little bit terrifying to see your own reflection in it. Olivia: It certainly is. A brilliant, grumpy, and ultimately hopeful look at the world of books. Jackson: This is Aibrary, signing off.