Narrator: Imagine a woman entering a bookshop, searching for the perfect retirement gift for her husband, a man fascinated by Victorian industrial architecture. The bookseller points her to a promising title, Great Western Branch Line Termini. She buys it, pleased with her thoughtful purchase. A few days later, she storms back into the shop, furious. Her husband, upon opening his gift, discovered that a previous customer had swapped the dust jacket. Beneath the cover promising a tour of railway stations was, in fact, The Illustrated Manual of Sex Therapy. This bizarre and hilarious incident is just another day at the office for a second-hand bookseller.

This is the world captured in Shaun Bythell’s Seven Kinds of People You Find in Bookshops. With the dry wit and weary eye of a veteran retailer, Bythell creates a mock-scientific taxonomy of the human species as observed from behind the counter of his shop in Wigtown, Scotland. It’s a field guide to the customers, staff, and strange encounters that define the life of a physical bookstore in the modern age.

Narrator: Bythell observes that a bookshop is often treated as a stage where customers perform their intellectual superiority. He classifies these individuals under the genus Peritus, or the Expert, but notes they come in several distinct species. There is the doctus, or Specialist, who delights in lecturing the staff on their niche passion, using obscure terms to highlight the bookseller’s supposed ignorance.

Then there is the most dreaded species: the hominem odiosis, or the Bore. This person considers themselves a polymath and will offer unsolicited, often offensive, opinions on any topic. Bythell recounts a story about a local bore named Alfred, who approached the counter with three books he declared were "responsible for the way things are now." The author’s friend, Robin, was helping that day and made the innocent suggestion that Alfred could pay with a contactless card. This simple comment triggered a fifteen-minute, paranoid monologue from Alfred about the perils of cyber security, trapping Robin in a lecture he never asked for. This performance isn't about sharing knowledge; it's about asserting dominance, turning the simple act of buying a book into an intellectual endurance test for the unfortunate staff member on duty.

Narrator: Beyond being a place of commerce, the bookshop often serves as an unofficial and sometimes unwilling community center. Bythell details the genus Homo qui desidet, the Loiterer, who uses the shop to kill time while waiting for a prescription or car repair, often engaging the staff in lengthy gossip. The shop also becomes a haven for the Familia Juvenis, or Young Family. This includes Exhausted Parents who see the children's section as a free-range playpen where they can distract their kids for a moment of peace.

In the most extreme cases, the shop becomes an impromptu daycare. A staff member named Gillian once found two pre-school children left completely unattended on a busy Saturday. Unable to locate their parents, she began reading to them while other staff searched the store. A considerable time later, the parents returned, laden with shopping bags and entirely oblivious to the concern they had caused, seemingly expecting the bookshop to provide free childcare. These encounters show that for many, a bookshop is not just about books, but a versatile public space to be used—and sometimes abused—as needed.

Narrator: A significant portion of Bythell's classification is dedicated to the myriad ways customers can be annoying. He introduces the Senex cum barba, or Bearded Pensioner, a genus known for complaining about everything and rarely buying anything. A particularly irritating species is the Lycra-Clad cyclist, who drives their camper van at an agonizingly slow pace, then unloads their bicycle to ride even slower, before stopping at the bookshop to unfold every single map, block the aisles, and leave without a word.

This ecosystem of irritation also includes the Viator non tacitus, or the Not-So-Silent Traveller. These are the customers who are seemingly unaware of the sounds they produce, from the tuneless Whistler to the incessant Sniffer. The most memorable, however, is the crepans, or the Farter. Bythell describes a recent encounter with an elderly man who, after releasing a silent but potent cloud of gas near the counter, simply walked away with a benign, almost proud, smile on his face. It was an act of such audacious self-assurance that it left the author in a state of mixed disgust and admiration. These small but persistent annoyances form the background radiation of a bookseller's daily life.

Narrator: The bookshop is a magnet for individuals with deep, specific, and sometimes bizarre passions. Bythell explores the world of the Homo qui meleficas amat, the Occultist, a customer who seeks out books on dark arts and ancient mysteries. This genus includes the Dark Artist, dressed in black and seeking the works of Aleister Crowley, and the Conspiracy Theorist, for whom the physics of the internal combustion engine are less plausible than spontaneous human combustion.

Another fascinating species is the Parentum historae studiosus, the Family Historian, a category dominated by Americans tracing their Scottish roots. These customers often arrive with an inflated sense of their lineage, seeking proof that they are the rightful chief of a clan. Bythell cynically observes that they seem to be searching for evidence that a damp ruin in Argyll is their birthright, when it’s far more likely their ancestor was the laird’s latrine cleaner. These encounters reveal how books provide a gateway not just to knowledge, but to identity, fantasy, and the deeply personal worlds that collectors and enthusiasts build for themselves.

Narrator: Finally, Bythell turns his taxonomic lens on his own kind: the Operarii, or Staff. He argues that the second-hand bookseller is a unique species, often jaded, antisocial, and self-employed because no one else would have them. This world-weariness is born from the daily onslaught of unreasonable customer expectations and repetitive questions.

The pressure of retail is perfectly captured in a story from a friend who worked in a busy Edinburgh bookshop. Overwhelmed during the Christmas rush, she was confronted by a haughty, demanding customer. After trying and failing to reason with the woman, the employee finally snapped and told her to "fuck off." The outraged customer demanded to see the manager. The manager, equally stressed, listened to the complaint and then, without missing a beat, looked at the customer and asked, "Then why haven’t you fucked off?" This moment of glorious, unprofessional catharsis encapsulates the book's core tension: the constant struggle between the ideal of customer service and the frustrating reality of human behavior. It reveals the weary, cynical, but ultimately resilient spirit of the person on the other side of the counter.

Narrator: At its heart, Seven Kinds of People You Find in Bookshops reveals that a bookstore is a living ecosystem, a microcosm of humanity where our collective eccentricities, passions, and frustrations are put on full display. Shaun Bythell’s cynical and hilarious classification system is more than just a list of complaints; it’s a testament to the strange, messy, and vital human connections that can only be forged within the physical walls of a real bookshop.

Despite the litany of grievances, the book ultimately uncovers a deep, if grudging, affection for the very people it skewers. The most profound moments are not the complaints, but the unexpected acts of grace, such as when a customer, during the COVID-19 lockdown, insisted on adding extra money to his order simply to help the shop survive. The book challenges us to see the hidden life of the places we frequent, reminding us that in an age of frictionless convenience, there is no algorithm that can replace the unpredictable, frustrating, and deeply rewarding experience of human interaction.