Book Inscriptions: Whispers From the Pages

Today I am blatantly borrowing from an idea that Kristian Strom of Bookthink, nicely wrote about in his blog. He knows I’m doing it and I told him to feel free to put a spin on anything I’ve done if the spirit moves him. That’s the thing about bookselling – all of us encounter the same situations, but each of us has a unique take on them. I actually addressed this particular subject last Christmas in one of the posts I used to leave on the Alibris site. I stopped writing over there though, despite the fact that it landed me a spot as featured seller on their antiquarian page during last year’s holiday season (yeah, how good is THAT!), because I never did figure out where they hid the things and how anyone was ever was supposed to see them. It felt like folding a post into a paper airplane and shooting it down the Black Hole of Calcutta. You guys may not talk to me much, but at least my newly installed counter tells me you’re here, which pleases me no end.

Anyway the big question today is this -- to inscribe a book, or not to inscribe? Conventional wisdom has it that collectible books should never be personalized unless the owner himself is a personage of note. An example of this would be a book we once owned about Early American music which was inscribed thus, "From the library of Francis Parkman" and then signed by Francis Parkman. Because Parkman is a renowned 19th century historian, that little scribble pushed up the price far beyond the value of the book itself. Nice, of course, but why should such an inscription by an everyday reader make a book slightly LESS desirable?

I got to thinking about this when a particularly nice copy of The House of the Seven Gables arrived over the counter at the store. On the front pastedown was written, "Purchased at the Tea Room, House of the Seven Gables; Salem, Mass. July 14, 1925. Luna Parker." Immediately I pictured Luna in her drop-waist dress, a cloche hat set jauntily on her bobbed hair having tea at a small round table with crisp white linen-- perhaps a cup of Earl Grey fragrant with bergamot and served in an English bone china cup decorated with roses. To accompany it she may have had a tiny cucumber sandwich with the crusts cut off and a raisin scone with clotted cream. All told, a lovely afternoon for a lady with who shared her name with the moon.

But hands-down, the best inscription I ever read came in a copy of A Little Maid of Old Maine by Alice Turner Curtis. Again, this is not a wildly valuable book, but one look at the inscription and the Little Maid was granted permanent resident status on my bookshelf. I’m sure the reason this struck such a chord with me is that I didn’t get books as gifts when I was a kid and the one time I did (four Kathy Martin nurse books) it never would have occurred to my mother to write anything in them. And even if she had, it would not have been anything close to this:

“To our darling Sophie Ann on her twelfth birthday March 21, 1960. This is one of 6 books we’ve purchased for your birthday. We know how much you enjoy a good book – for a good book is more satisfying than a good meal, as you can always go back to satisfy your thirst for knowledge and pleasure. You have all my heart and all my love. You are like the air I must breathe to keep alive. Love, Mom.”

Every time I look at this I wonder why this book is here with me and not with Sophie Ann who is only a couple years older than I am. Who could part with something so personal and heartfelt? And yet somehow people do part with such books, or the books do their own mysterious parting, and we as booksellers become their keepers. If I have a book with a special inscription I turn it into a selling point because I believe it truly is one, conventional wisdom to the contrary. In fact, at last week’s estate sale the conversation on the porch while we waited for the witching hour turned to this very subject (I swear I didn’t initiate it either) and the consensus was that inscriptions are not only acceptable, but welcomed gems of hidden treasure.

Kristian also pointed out in his blog – and he is SO right – that electronic readers will never come equipped with such nuggets of personal history. How sad if we are to lose them, because it's people, not events, that make up the fabric of all history. The events are the embroidery that decorate it for good, or ill. So I will remain delighted to open a copy of Treasure Island and see that Aunt Ettie gave it to little Freddie for Christmas in 1919, not only because the inscription evokes a moment of past pleasure, but because it reminds me that we are all part of the human continuum. The voices of Luna, Aunt Ettie, Sophie Ann’s mom, and all the rest who ever took pen in hand whisper to us, "I was here!"

And that, to me, is a reminder to live well on the planet and cherish its pleasures and people while we can. As the old adage goes, the days are long, but the years are short.