Blackwell’s bookshop is like meeting a familiar face in a crowded street
There, in the Broad, within whose booky house
Half England’s scholars nibble books or browse.
Where’er they wander blessed fortune theirs:
Books to the ceiling, other books upstairs;
Books, doubtless, in the cellar and behind
Romantic bays, where iron ladders wind.
It doesn’t matter where I go in the world, stepping into a bookshop is like meeting a familiar face in a crowded street. Even in the furthest places, I understand the currency of book browsing, the etiquette of printed words, and the magic of being surrounded by stories, so when my husband and I moved from Canada to Oxford almost four years ago, I immediately fell in love with Blackwell’s bookshop.