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The Bookshop is truly a gem. Fitzgerald offers a richly detailed exploration of the crusty foibles within a small town. His work lays bare the stubborn reasons why life persists in remaining the same. This is because human weakness clings to familiar failure and vigorously rejects anything that seems new. Unlike the typical smart aleck self-assurance that often accompanies a jaundiced view of village traditions, this tale of thwarted aspirations is fully aware that rural tradition is not an unqualified good. Fitzgerald demonstrates remarkable restraint and control in crafting pungent sentences, which are compiled in short chapters that effectively capture the essence. If small town fiction is considered a genre, it is fascinating. However, it can be a bit embarrassing to contrast the British and American versions. Fitzgerald's writing is dry, lean, and sharp, as telling as a crisp bite of cilantro. In contrast, the average American counterpart is often blobby, overblown, and striving for effect, drenched in BBQ sauce lest someone miss the point. Ouch to our comparative English language traditions, although, to be sure, there are exceptions among our gringo best.
