Jeanette Winterson, for The Guardian, revisits Paris and one of the world's most famous bookstores.
Last year, when I visited Paris, I sat up in the loft looking out the window, books everywhere and thoughts of writing a book zinging through my little head. I mean, this is PARIS, further the Latin Quarter, where Hemingway wandered the streets, Gertrude Stein, T.S. Eliot. I pulled out my travel notebook and just wrote and wrote and wrote. It was late, dark, cold and I wondered if I stayed up in the loft if they would accidentally lock me in. I was kind of hoping they didn't. But, no. Up the stairwell an employee said, "We're closing," in that delightful French accent. And I chuffed my books back into my bag, literally trying to suck the spirit of that place one last time, then trundled out, and walked along the Seine, Notre Dame watching me go.
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