The Book Seller As Collector

I didn’t used to be much of a collector, but over the years a creeping underground virus seemed to have taken me over. Eric was afflicted with it from the first day we opened the business, forever searching through my stacks of books, falling in love with this one or that one, and wanting to keep it. I, on the other hand, wanted to move them ALL out the door like soldiers marching in lockstep formation. I loved them greatly – no question about that – but business was business.

To understand these diverse attitudes you have only to look at our diverse backgrounds. Eric’s father made his living as an antiques dealer who always creamed the very best items he acquired off the top of his inventory – the Flow Blue soup tureen, the cherry corner cupboard with glass doors, the Ohio long rifle signed by a rare maker -- and let the lesser things pay for his habit. In this way he built several very fine collections with little outlay and much cunning. I, on the other hand, was an inner city kid whose parents collected nothing more than bills and grief which turned out to be collections enough. I loved books passionately and completely, but it was for their content and comfort, not for their monetary value.

But then I discovered antiquarian books and paper. At first I was merely charmed by their fetching bindings, their raised bands, and paisley endpapers, but gradually a quiet sea change began(well, as quiet as anything I’m involved in ever is). The metamorphosis pretty much remained underground though until 2004 when I sold Kipling’s From Sea To Sea, Letters Of Travel, a two volume set in its rare original slipcase. If I had a dime for every academic I'd scanned that slipcase for I could probably retire and take up gardening, so when the set sold my reaction stunned even me. For several seconds I stared in disbelief at the order from Advanced Book Exchange and then wailed like a hired keener at an Irish wake. After that I picked up the phone, called Eric at the store, and burst into tears. Rarely do my overflowing emotions surprise him (he’s logged 40 years of them, after all), but I think that one could be filed under the classification Shock and Awe.

“I know. I get it,” he said comfortingly once the amazement dissipated. “But let this be a lesson. Don’t list this stuff if you don’t want to sell it.”

Never again would I do this, I agreed. Never. And I didn’t. Until the next time.

Sadly, there have been lots of next times. In fact, one took place this week, which is what got me to thinking about all of this. On Wednesday I sold Capote’s iconic Breakfast at Tiffany’s in first edition. I got it maybe a month ago at an estate sale, hidden in a bookcase by the office window of a nondescript ranch house in Akron. Lovely condition, crisp paper on the jacket, no price clip, no names or writing – beautiful. And now sold.

For two days I mourned its loss and and then I got over it. It occurred to me one night while I was reading in bed that my sea change was not exactly as pure and mystical as I made it out to be. The truth is, I am not a real collector and I never will be. My sadness over the loss of Breakfast at Tiffany’s is not about edition, points, or any other collector foible. It’s about the hard work it took to acquire it and its tangible evidence of the knowledge I’ve gained over the years. As plebian as the truth may be, I would love that book just as much in a book club edition as I do in a first.

So from here on in I won't even pretend to collect, but rather leave the collecting to Eric who happily fills the bookcase he built in our living room to house the treasures. I add next to nothing to it anyway, other than exceptional volumes from stock that provide a fleeting beauty, though the sight of all these books glowing like the jewels of the Nile fills me with a deep, sustaining pleasure. I will continue of course to mourn and grieve, wail and moan at their passing, but no longer with any illusions. When the day comes that we have an estate sale of our own the dealers and collectors (if there even are any by then) will descend on the living room like a flock of vul... uh, pigeons. Meanwhile, my books – a motley amalgamation of Lost Generation, May Sarton, and books about books -- will sit like wallflowers on the shelves in the family room. Safe.