A few of the tumbleweeds who were at Shakespeare & Co. with me in the summer of 1980. Left to right: Neil Greenspan from New York; Iain Pickard from England; anonymous (at her request); and Dorian Flanders from the eastern US. If any of you happen to come across this page one day when you're out surfing the Net, drop me a line, and we'll reminisce...

he house rules for the tumbleweeds were simple:

• read a book a day
• write a short autobiography for the Shakespeare & Co. archives
• help out a couple of hours a day at the various chores that accompany the running of a creaky, anarchic bookstore on the banks of the Seine

In exchange we had a place to sleep in Paris. Imagine what it would have been like for a book lover such as me to bed down in a book-lined room in a 17th century building at the heart of Paris. Absolutely impossible to fall asleep. I remember gazing around myself each night in complete wonder. Books on all four walls, rising to the ceiling. Volumes squeezed tightly onto shelves. Stacked on the floor. In the corners. More books than anyone could ever hope to read in one lifetime, let alone a too-brief stay.

Most of us were wedged into the rooms of the library, directly above the bookstore. In overflow situations, or when George wanted to fete a visiting writer of generally dubious merit, the small writer's room across the landing might be occupied as well. Packs were forbidden during the day: George adamantly insisted that the library be a library for visitors and customers. It was only when the bookstore closed at midnight that the place transformed itself, and the tumbleweeds could begin their nocturnal Paris lives.