Abstract
A literary landmark in Beijing is being forced to close.
“For various reasons I’m keeping a low profile currently and I’m not doing Bookworm interviews,” said one of the owners when Index asked about the closure.
The announcement sparked a social media storm among expats and locals. On the bookshop’s official page on WeChat – China’s Facebook-like social media platform – the announcement was viewed more than 100,000 times (the maximum number the platform would show) within hours. My Twitter feed was also full of comments expressing sadness and surprise.
Why would a bookshop’s closing cause such widespread outcry? And what does the closure mean for the exchange of free ideas in the literary community in Beijing?
The Bookworm was more than just a bookshop: it was a library, a bar, a restaurant and an events space. You would be challenged to find another place in China with more freedom of speech than The Bookworm. It was one of the few places in Beijing where you could listen to a panel talk about detained Chinese feminists or hear a North Korean defector’s story of escaping her country and finding asylum.
In 14 years it hosted more than 4,000 authors, 12 international literary festivals and numerous fun social events such as quiz nights, poetry readings and films on the rooftop.
It was a place where people with different backgrounds – diplomats, journalists, writers, students and tourists – would meet, talk and make friends.
Tom Baxter, former Beijing Bookworm International Literary Festival programme manager, told Index how sad he felt about the news and highlighted that The Bookworm sold books that were hard to find elsewhere in the city. He said “it was a meeting place where great conversations would begin” and “a source of inspiration for many people”.
Located in the central area of Sanlitun, The Bookworm was an oasis in Beijing’s ultra urban metropolis, where tradition and history have given way to cement high-rises and shiny, new shopping malls.
It occupied the second floor of a building that used to be an electrical factory but has been renovated into a centre of hipster restaurants, cool nightclubs and bars. The stairs to the bookshop were painted with the names of renowned authors and their books – from George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four to Chinese author Yu Hua’s To Live.
I was sad, but not shocked, to see The Bookworm’s announcement. Being branded an “illegal structure” has become commonplace for many small businesses in this city. Since 2017, when Beijing started a crackdown on these so-called illegal buildings, many popular venues have been closed down. What the government wants is a city where every single space, especially those that organise events, is run through central government management.
Karoline Kan (top right) speaks at The Bookworm, a legendary bookshop and venue in Beijing, that is now closing down
CREDIT: (Top right) Karoline Kan/Facebook; (bottom left and right) The Bookworm
Culture must be state-owned, state-managed and must serve the purpose of the Chinese Communist Party’s propaganda. It cannot be grassroots like the culture at The Bookworm.
Bookshops occupy a special place in many people’s lives – especially in China. Censorship and surveillance are prevalent and people need spaces where they can meet in person to discuss any topic without fear of being monitored and reported. But the emergence of e-commerce and digital books, combined with the crackdown on independent spaces, has meant that independent bookshops are dying.
Bookshops have played a really important role in my journey to becoming a writer. I grew up in a small town in northern China where the only thing relevant to literature and culture was a chain bookshop called Xinhua (New China), which was a 15-minute bike ride from my home. In the 1990s and early 2000s, when I was at school, I spent almost every weekend afternoon in that bookshop. It was a place where I could escape into other worlds that weren’t all about money, mundane work and gossip.
That 50-square-metre room opened up a world of literature, art, music and dreams to me. Many other Chinese people share similar memories of bookshops, especially those who grew up in small places like I did.
The Bookworm was the place where I saw my dreams come true. Those glorious names printed on the book covers became real – sitting in front of me, talking and laughing with the audience. A few of them even gave me advice. It was at The Bookworm where I met and made friends with other journalists and writers. It was also there where I had romantic evenings with my partner when we first started dating and found we had a lot in common.
Alec Ash shares my views. He launched his book Wish Lanterns there. He told Index: “I feel devastated by the Beijing Bookworm’s closure. The Bookworm has long been a hub for cultural engagement and the free exchange of ideas, both of which are especially important in China today. Bookshops and libraries are a third space that foster free speech, and I hope that that space will not shrink too much further without it.”
The Bookworm is trying to relocate somewhere else, so it’s too early to say if this is its own final chapter. But can it ever be what it was? Anthony Tao, editor at digital magazine SupChina and Bookworm quiz night organiser, thinks not.
“It won’t be the same because of the institutional memory in the old location. That’s real, because real people – thousands upon thousands – were there, at that spot, when memorable things happened.”
At the last quiz night there, everyone cheered for the great memories it had provided and wished it good luck relocating. People need bookshops, and they need them more than ever today as an antidote to our retreat online. Face-to-face debating, the sympathy gained from offline communications and the sense of security and freedom from a warm and welcoming place are hard to come by. I hope it’s not “goodbye”, just “see you soon”.