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From the blog, "An American Bibliophile in London":
A.Z. Fell & Co.
I know a number of you were waiting for me to get around to reviewing this one, after some of the things I've said about it in passing before. Honestly, I'm not sure why I've been putting it off. Possibly it's the sort of place that doesn't exactly feel like it would welcome the publicity, to the extent that one almost feels a little guilty bringing it any. Or maybe just because it's hard to know quite what to say about it. The whole place is just a little bit odd, in a way that's difficult to put a finger on.
But let's start with the facts: A.Z. Fell and Co. has been located on the same Soho street corner since 1800, having apparently been passed down through the generations to the current Mr. Fell, who is now the owner and sole employee. It specializes in rare and antiquarian volumes, and features an especially fine collection of religious writings, old Bibles, and books of prophecy. This isn't an area I personally have a particular interest in – contrary to a popular impression on this side of the Pond, not all Americans are fanatical Bible-thumpers! – but it can be fascinating to browse, and if you catch Mr. Fell in a talkative mood (and manage to stay on his good side), he can tell you all kinds of wonderful, obscure things about the history behind them. This is a guy who is so fond of his books, and so knowledgeable about them, that he almost gives the impression that he knew some of the authors personally.
One can also find more mundane, secular volumes in stock, although very little that was published less than a century and a half ago. The one notable exception to that is the small children's section, which mostly features classic 20th century boys' adventure novels. That seems to have been added in recently; I have no idea why. It's sufficiently out of place among the rare first editions, religious tomes, and classic 19th century novels that my best guess would be that it was put there as some sort of nod to the owner's own children, if it weren't for the fact that it's surprisingly hard to imagine Fell having a family of any sort. You almost wouldn't be surprised to learn that he lives in the bookshop.
Physically, the place is cozy, cluttered, and charming, although I suspect there may be a plumbing issue in the building somewhere, as at times you can catch a very faint hint of sulfur wafting among the shelves. How inviting it is in other ways, however, depends very much on what you're there to do. If you're there to browse without buying, you will likely be tolerated, perhaps even welcomed if you're happy to listen to Fell bend your ear a bit about misprinted Bibles or the prophecies of Mother Shipton... who, by the way, I had never heard of before, but who turns out to be pretty interesting. (I should also add that, despite his obvious fascination with religion and various indications that he is himself some variety of believer, the guy has never tried to convert me or preach at me or anything like that. I mentioned to him once that I was grateful for this, and he just said something about humans having free will and it not being his job.)
If you're looking for a dusty but not especially valuable edition of Jane Eyre or something, you're also probably fine, unless Fell randomly decides to close the shop before you get to the till, something that does tend to happen if he gets bored, or decides he wants to go out for a snack, or if his friend happens to show up. Yes, friend, singular. As far as I've ever been able to tell, he only seems to have one of them. And, honestly, if that guy shows up, you're probably better off getting out of there, anyway. He's... got an interesting sense of humor. And that's all I'll say about that. In any case, there's no point in protesting about it. I tried it once, and the next thing I know I was out on the street with a CLOSED sign staring me in the face. To this day, I still do not remember actually exiting the door.
That sort of almost magically rapid ejection, however, is much more likely to occur should you attempt to purchase one of the older, rarer, or more specialized volumes. Yes, if you haven't guessed as much by now, it turns out that Mr. Fell is one of those weird British institutions that I didn't entirely believe in until I got here: the bookseller who takes it as a personal affront if you try to buy any of his books out from under him. Attempt to purchase the wrong thing, and you may get to see this normally smiley, sweet-mannered gentleman unleash an almost Biblical wrath of his own.
He does, however, sometimes agree to take special orders over the phone and is occasionally even willing to help collectors hunt down especially obscure and elusive volumes, particularly if he's already managed to obtain his own copy and doesn't see them as competition. I've never dared to attempt to engage his services in this area, myself, but I'm told by those who have that he's considered something of a miracle worker. It does require a bit of persistence to do anything with him over the phone, though, as you first have to get past his reflexive habit of answering with, "We're closed" and immediately hanging up. Note that the shop does not have a website, and I strongly advise not attempting to google for one. Searching will turn up a number of official-looking URLs for the place, but clicking on them inevitably takes you instead to either a fake page for the shop advertising 75% off on various trashy bestsellers, a redirect to the London branch of the Church of Satan, or a rickroll. None of which, I'm afraid, is likely to be corrected in the near future. I mentioned it to Fell once, and he simply muttered something about the internet having been invented by a demon.
Store hours, are, as you might imagine, highly eccentric, and the fact that they are clearly posted on the front door is of no help whatsoever. If you're interested in visiting, I'm afraid your best strategy is simply to show up at some random time and hope your guardian angel is smiling on you that day.
If you are going to plan a visit, though, I might suggest doing so sooner, rather than later. The last time I was there, I happened to strike up a conversation with Mr. Fell, in which I (diplomatically, I hope!) brought up the aforementioned phenomenon of the British Bookseller Who Doesn't Actually Sell Books, and half-jokingly speculated that this particular breed of bibliophile might consist mostly of frustrated archivists who really just want to keep personal libraries, but instead open bookshops because they feel it's somehow what's expected of them. To be honest, I half-expected at that point to mysteriously find myself on the other side of the door again. But instead he sort of stared off into space and said something thoughtful-sounding about how it does wear on the soul, spending all of your time – well, I think what he said was "all of time," but presumably that's what he actually meant – trying to convince others that you are what they want you to be. And then he said that he thought perhaps, in his case, I was right, that he'd never really felt allowed to have anything just for himself without having to justify it to anyone or pretend it was something else.
I was still trying to figure out how to respond to that unexpected bit of soul-baring, when Fell's friend suddenly walked in, leading to the usual announcement that the shop was now closed. I hustled myself on out before anything disconcerting could happen, but as I went, I could see Fell looking at the guy. I saw this expression on his face... I don't even know how to describe it, except to say that he looked like a man having a revelation.
So. Just a hunch, based on nothing but a half-glimpsed facial expression and some vaguely cryptic words. But, somehow, I won't be at all surprised if the next time he answers the phone with, "We're closed," he genuinely means it. And if so, good for him. I can only wish Mr. Fell, and his private collection – and, because I am a forgiving soul, his friend, or whatever he actually is – all the best.
It certainly wouldn't be the same in Soho without him, though. I might actually have to buy my own weird Bibles.