The Secrets of the Old Rare Books Collector's Secrets - Part Seven - "Piece of Mind"

The Secrets of the Old Rare Books Collector's Secrets

Part Seven

"Piece of Mind"

            What I do the most of, these days... as an old rare books dealer (one who finds and sells old rare books) is... ‘leave behind’.  Once, before the transition of the bibliomania borderlands to the fore declared bibliomania state of Bibliobooklessness, I took away all the rare books I found and ‘sold them’.  Generally this took place “right along” with little “touch” from I, the old rare books vender.  The old rare books I found (find) “sold themselves” to the bevies... gaggles and gathers of the Old Rare Books Collectors.  Back then... I would purvey the found old rare book and... it “sells”.  Now... of days... it is easier for I to... buy the rhubarb pie... and eat it. (Part Six)

            Of course it was always easier to do that (eat the rhubarb pie) than find and sell the old rare books... all along ‘anyway’.  It is actually (and always was) ‘pretty hard to do that’ (find and sell old rare books).  Some... deep within the trade... titled doing that “a special calling”.  After fifty years of ‘doing it’... I suppose I agree that “IT”... “IS”.  It is just... that now... I have added the ‘leave behind’ the old rare book I found as a very major part of what I do... do...

            The ratio (one to one) is that the old rare book now found... cannot be easily sold because... “no one wants it” (or even “knows what it is”) (with that including a substantive admonition; a bibliographically correct annotational ‘promotional puff’, from I ...not asked for).  That is the odd duck of this... these days:  I, over there, ‘find one’; “a copy of that” and... having a “nowhere to go with that”... leave it behind.  It is not just books.  Decorative Arts now have black holes in their universes too.  But... old rare books are a special calling.  Right?

            Yes they are.  It is a very faintly heard calling.  And it is not calling to you.  No.  You... with your ear buds and phone charger “I LEFT IT OH MY GOD (o-M-GEE).  And.  Well...  THAT... IS the end of the old rare book I found... right there...  then...

            NOW.

            One day I offered about forty bird watcher identification books including  regional USA and international sites... for two dollars each.  No one purchased ‘any’ and only a few looked.  I put them out on a dollar table for a week and then... threw them out.  Last week I offered a group of twenty hardcover ‘antique’ editions Herman Melville books for between six and twenty dollars each.  The group was never looked over by anyone.  One man asked “What was his first book”.  “Typee “ I said... and nothing more.  I was eating a breaded roll stuffed with broccoli ... homemade by a vendor down the flea market “lane” from me.  She was ‘selling them’ “I think” meaning that she’d actually been “giving them away” “to friends”.  Doing that is a flea market science... and has nothing to do with Bibliobooklessness.  In fact, she herself is a self declared ‘book less’... “ness”.  “I HAD HIS BOOKS IN BOXES DOWN CELLAR (in her basement) BUT I GAVE THEM AWAY”.  Those were her father’s ...father’s... old rare books.  “HE BUILT RAILROADS” in Maine... she says... fairly often to me.  IS THAT MAN’S ghost trying to contact me... about that ‘horror show’ of the destruction of his “library”?  It doesn’t matter.  IF the books were “anything”... a “somebody got them” and they are “OUT THERE FOR SALE SOMEWHERE”.  With no one... buying them... “TOO”. (Bibliobooklessness).

            Are you okay with this?  Or do you think your going to do something about it (Bibliobooklessness).  What are you going to do?  Pick up what looks like an old rare book to you and look at it?  Fumble with it?  Ponder it and its shelved companions?  Tell your friends that you saw one (an old rare book) and it... seems to be... speaking to you?

            “Speaking volumes” they say.  Yes.  That... is that... ‘so stupid’.  Just go away from ‘treating’ this subject.  Put the old ...not... rare book down and ... no you didn’t buy the rhubarb pie either (“too sour”) and NO:

            The black hole in the universe calling Bibliobooklessness is “low battery” “Dismiss?” 

            The Faithful Healers of Bibliobooklessness?  Yes they are around.  I started this essay with one; her books in boxes in her basement; they are the overflow from her shelves.  The shelves are the bookcases in the cool dark room.  The doggie in there is Benjamin.  The ‘accident’ on the floor in the dark is Benjamin’s.  The books ARE a collection.  This is not Bibliobooklessness.  It is not Bibliomania.  It is... a... biblio accumulation... ‘sort of pretty much’.

            A good job?  Yes, these days.  She’s stuck at it for forty years.  “At it” “Since I can remember.  “Always her hand; a pink puffy hand, holding an old book.  “What do you think of this she regularly asks.  I stop, look and biblio concise and polite state... my world view of her ‘of this’ old rare book.  I stop, drop and roll.  I enjoy that; seeing someone else’s old rare book they ‘found’.

            She has a cell phone.  I do too.  Neither of us can ‘use them’.  Even answering them is a technical challenge.  Benjamin is in the car.  Left there until the boundaries are clear for his “walk”.  The table is set out with cookies and, again (Part Two), shortbread.  The shortbreads have been broken.  When the book collector takes the book she showed me back to her car, she returns with Benjamin on his leash.  She brought the book to show me; to show me alone.  That is a very high compliment.  I know this at the time.  And treat it so.  The book is nothing.  But it is better than it could be.  I compliment it... in an effort to ‘get it shelved’.  Otherwise it goes in to a box.  Which box... “I can’t remember”.  I’ll bring that book up with her again.  When I visit her home.  To try and sell her an old rare book I found.  The point of that bringing up would be to get us to move into the cool dark bookroom (including ‘watch where you step’).  Once we are in the room of her old rare books... maybe something may come of it.  A flirt.  Intercourse.  Nothing sexual you reading fool.  A flirt of old rare books perhaps becoming old rare books commercial... intercourse.

            In a cool dark room.  With Benjamin her doggie and his ‘got to be one around here somewhere’ accident.

            What happens... “now”... “from here”?  “IS” (there must be) a secret to a secret that is a causation that brings Bibliobooklessness to a shuddered stop?  With a hand on an old book; an old book in my hand, do I... can I... does it, will it, can it and... out of the biblio black hole the old rare books... a... ‘walks back’?

            I do find myself in the cool dark book room of the old rare books collector and I do hold an old rare book but I do, too, carry a skeleton key

            Of a book...

            Another

            Bibliography.

            Another secret of the secret of the information of the secrets

            From an old rare book collector’s secrets

            Of secrets

            From another ‘long ago’.

The Eggnog

The Eggnog

            “I was worried about getting either run through or

            Run over.  It’s always that way for me at Christmas holidays.

            Days they are.  Not just one day and sidestep that.  No.  Days of it.

            Punctual.

            Sensible.

            Days of it.

            Then it’s over.

            And I suppose I can get back to it.  All the antiques, of course, are still right there.  They have the Patience of Job you know.  Nothing changes them during the holidays.  Their timeline is complete.  And they sit in the big shadow.  No one notices.  After a while one of them comes along and picks one off; an antique.  And then it starts again; the antiques business.  A collector comes by and won’t shut up.  Doesn’t buy anything.  Just won’t shut up.  Another one brings by some cookies his wife made.  Christmas cookies.  Late.  Already stale.  I’m suppose to put a tree up with lights on it for that?  Some old fashion eggnog.  Real eggnog?  ‘MADE eggnog’?  Wouldn’t they like me to say that.  Of course they’d rather just drink (the whiskey) from the bottle.  No one wants raw egg in their whiskey these days.

            I’m punctual.  During the holidays.  Not early.  Not late.  Sort of around.  But maybe not.  If your looking for me I may not

            Look back.

            Who cares?  Your not doing anything worthy any way.  NOT LOOKING at the spine ends and noticing the head of the spines are NOT frayed.  Torn off.  From finger pulling... imbeciles.

            That is it you know:  Go find them:  Perfect firsts (first editions) with the spine heads NOT frayed.  Only collectors know what I’m talking about:  ‘Spine heads’.  ‘Frayed’.  From your fingers.  You’d think you’d LEARN something over the DECADES you’ve ‘miscellany’ pulled the ‘old books’ you call them OFF the shelves by their

            Spine heads.  That’s WHY they are always frayed.  Because of you.  And the whiskey in your eggnog that you... didn’t MAKE.

            See?

            It is all linked BACK to spine ends.  And your fingers that you have NO SENSE

            Of control

            Of.

            I went to the Bronte exhibit at the Morgan (library NYC).  JUST went there.  Really a lot of people there too.  Didn’t expect that.  Women viewing.  Some men too but a lot of women.  Securitizing it; the exhibit.  Don’t want to touch that too much.  It was all fine and well; the exhibit.  Looked like they’d gone up in Charlotte’s attic and gathered up the old books and papers scattered on the floor.  Put them in glass cases and

            Explained them.  Nice enough at that.  You know.  But the spine ends.  No one was noticing those.  Absolutely perfect copies.  No rebacking.  No spines laid down.  NO CHIPS at the spine head.  NO FINGERS PULLING

            Ever.

            What a relief.

            And NOT an accident.  Morgan knew all about this.  And collector ‘best’ copies.  That’s how you know its all NOT from an attic FLOOR.  It’s all collector grade.  REAL collector grade... where it is just THERE... PERFECT and... nothing is said about THAT.              Only an imbecile pulls those books off the shelf by their spine head.  Only IDIOTS don’t know that; notice THAT... too.

            Oh I’m sorry about all that.  Lost you.  Right?  You don’t need to worry about all that.  It’s still the holidays.  Have some of my eggnog.  I made it myself.  REAL bourbon.  The bottles in that chair.  Under the throw.  It’s Christmas

            You know.

            When you get back from your holidays... don’t just poke along this year.  I mean really.  Do something about; your poking.  I know:  Poking.  Your good at it.  Really try though.  I mean think of it;  having something that actually IS something... this year.  Not just a fudge that you show off to me.  A ‘something I bought’ that you want your forehead patted and me to say ‘good dog’.  You did that last year.  Let’s not do it again this year.  Come back this year WITH something.  An actual something.  I realize that’s asking a lot.  But maybe you’ll lift the tedium of

            Your birth

            That’s not very nice to say is it.  It must be the eggnog.  Too many SIPS of THAT.

            Right?

            What if I showed you something good this year and you actually bought it.  Not necessarily a rare book but... maybe... a good ‘real antique’.  One where people who know say ‘Oh look at THAT’... to themselves.  And are surprised that you did that.  So surprised that they ‘don’t know’.  Could have been something THEY’D buy.  That kind of antiques.  A ‘stopper’.  Of course an old book would be even MORE.  No one... but a someone would...

            Ever know

            THAT; you’d bought a rare book

            Collector grade.

            Of course you’d have to know what one of those is.

            Right?

            And then come back on that like a grownup:  How to

            Solve that problem.

            That’s easy to do.  Actually.  Just BUY a real rare book from someone who knows and

            Handle that book

            Everyday

            Until it begins to seem to make some sort of sense to you.  And then do that again.           

            A few times over and over.  And see how it goes for you.  See if you ‘make friends’ with the old books

            In ‘collector grade’ condition.  Yes:  Spine ends.  You know all about them NOW.  Makes complete sense.  And they are rare too... on a true rare book.  Perfect spine ends on an old book does not mean that that book

            Is a rare book.

            It has to be a rare book; a desirable book... with perfect spine ends.  NOT just any old book.  With perfect spine ends.  Plenty of THOSE around; not rare books no one reads with... therefore... perfect spine ends.  Never pulled from a shelf.  And read.

            No:  Bring me something really truly rare with perfect... spine ends

            Or don’t bother.

            I didn’t bother to make eggnog for you either.

            Your wife’s Christmas cookies are stale.

            And your out poking around again.  Don’t know what it’s gonna be THIS YEAR.

            Do you.

            But ‘give it a good poke’ won’t you.

            OH come on right in and SIT DOWN and TELL how it’s STARTED FOR YOU.              Right off, you say, you found a poke and want me to LOOK at it do you?  Oh go get it.  IN THE CAR you say.  So shrewd of you; keeping it SAFE there.  Good.  Go get it.  Show me.

            Yes.  There we go:  The year begins.  It’s ‘after’ the holidays NOW.  So much easier; the regular crowd.  The regular GRIND.  OH look what

            Did you find!

            Oh that is a FIND.

            Quite a FIND.

            INDEED.”

Cold Black Coffee - Rambling-Round

Cold Black Coffee

Rambling-Round

Cold black coffee:  Rambling-round.

Cold black coffee “So black a spoon ill standup in it”.

            “YOU STILL GOT THAT (early New England – Maine made - lead glazed earthenware) REDWARE JAR (‘stew pot’) YOU HAD TO THE FORT (local flea market)?”

            “NO.”

            “SELL IT?”

            “NO.”

            (Pause).

            (sip).

            (Pause).

            (Eye contact).

            “NO.” said again.

            “Where is it?”

            “Give it to go to PORTSMOUTH (antiques dealer’s show/sale) LAST WEEK.”

            “Did it go?”

            “Believe so.”

            “You’d think you’d KNOW if it WENT by NOW.”

            “Not this time of year:  Went on to his DAUGHTER’S.  She’s NOW moved BACK from that GEORGIA.  DIVORCED.  MOVING TO NORTH READING (Mass.).”

            “Oh...  Been there... Some.”

            “I picked along there too... Bedford.  Arlington-Lexington.  Good area.  Used to be.”

            “Where’d you find that jar anyway?”

            “Your neighbor’s garage sale.”

            (Pause).

            (Sip).

            (Pause).

            (Eye contact).

            “You still got all your ammo?  You still HOARDING it?”

            “Shut-up.”

            “That new economy trickled down to you guys right away didn’t it.  Seems to me you guys might be the first ones to have been screwed by him.”

            “Shut-up”

            “Nice of him to get to you first.  He drained your swamp didn’t he.  What you do’en ‘bout it?”

            “Let’s put it this way:  I ain’t buying any anymore.  I got my lifetime supplied.”

            “And the junk guns?”

            “Oh I’d gotten rid of most of those this last summer”.

            “Old ten dollar guns not worth ten dollars anymore”.

            “Right.  Where’d you find that jar anyway.”

            “I told you:  Two doors down on the right.”

            (Pause.)

            (Sip.)

            (Pause.)

            “That place don’t even HAVE a garage”.

            “Nope.  PORCH SALE actually.  I always like them PORCH SALES anyway:  Halfway into the house when you start.  Been asking ‘em for old guitars, records and ‘cook where’ I’s CALL IT.  That’s working.  They all got it:  Got that COOK... WHERE.  Jesus.”

            “Cookware?  I seen you with all that.  That sells?”

            “Who cares.  Just throw it out if it don’t.  But.  Jesus.  They all got it.  Boxes of the old shit.  Every which way in there.  Downstairs-backstairs-cellar-attic-garage-shed out back-sister’s house up the street and THEN they take you through their grandmother’s place too.”

            “Works... huh.”

            “Works huh harder than your lazy ass ever has.”

            “What’s that then... you find that jar along doing that?”

            “That’s the whole point:  Get in and GO.  LOOK AROUND STUPID.  I don’t know what they got and THEY DON’T KNOW EITHER.  Next thing I’m back in the truck cab with that old pot and a sip of cold coffee.”

            “How much you gonna get out of that?”

            “The coffee?  It’s cold but black as tar.  I like it that way.

            “No.  What you got on that jar?”

            “Just a here and there.  I don’t want too much; buy a MESS.  Don’t make ‘em a MESS.  Get a little goodies along and get out.  I come back a month later and ... ‘low and behold’... they DO ‘got more’.  I said to one of ‘em “WHERE’D YOU GET ALL THIS (cookware)?” .  The fools BOUGHT IT.”

            “Christmas is on SUNDAY this year.”

            “Yeah I know.”

            “So that does that.”

            “Does that for the whole damn WEEK.  Be TUESDAY January THIRD before I can do anything.”

            “I won’t even TRY.  Just sit around at the FLEA (flea market) and eat cookies.  They got that New Year’s day (antiques) show.  You ever do that?

            “No.”

            “Some say they do pretty good”.

            “I don’t think so; not too much money around that morning (New Year’s day).  Same old – same old.  Seems to me.

            (Pause).

            (Sip).

            (Pause).

            “Didn’t you do something with that Mildred Calihanny’s place one New Years.”

            “Yes.  After the fire.”

            “Fire?”

            “She had a chimney fire New Years eve.  Nothing.  Stomped all around her place pretending to be putting it out.  I went in the attic with Bud.  Shined the flashlight all around in the attic.  No fire there but Jesus was it FULL.  So I went right to her and talked cash.  Went back the next day.  That was New Years.  I’ve known her along time.  Since her sister’s DOG drowned at Kettle Pond.  We were just out of high school then.”

            “Her mother lived a long time at the Benjamin Hardy place.  Housekeeper for the Hardies.  She out lived ‘em all.  Tough birds that family.”

            “Didn’t make cookies?”

            “No:  No cookies there.”

            “What’s happened to all that stuff anyway”

            “Last I heard it was still in Hastings’ barn over across the river.  Sold the (Hardy) place couple years ago.  Wouldn’t ever let me in.”

            “You can’t get Hastings to let you in?”

            “I can get in but it ain’t his to sell.  Was piled right up there; the whole kit and caboodle.  When I seen it.  STILL ALL THERE as far as I know.”

            “You’d think they’d do something.”

            “Oh they will SOMETIME.  Not this week.  Turned cold too.  Can’t get ‘em to stand in a barn ten minutes unless your handing ‘em hundred dollar bills.  I’m not gonna do that.  Wait it out.  Plenty of stuff around.  Anyway.

            “What do you think:  Santa’s gonna come and make it all right?”

            “If he could just put them louvers in my new shed I be happy”.

            “You didn’t stick those in?

            “No... the fall got away from me again.”

            “Get the ladder and go out there.”

            “Yeah... standing on a ladder holding on to galvanized eight pennies (nails) with my finger tips: I’ll just get to it right now.”

            “Come on; winters not THAT bad yet.”

            “I'd rather go down in the basement and...”

            “Count your bricks of twenty-twos.  Count ‘em up and send Uncle Donald the bill.  You know: ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS from SANTA’!”

            “You think he should wear a red suit and go around in a sled?  Toss everyone handfuls of money?  That ah get him the damn Popular Vote.”

            “You gonna be at the flea Saturday.  Suppose to snow again.”

            “Farmer’s Market will be there.  Sort of.  Anyways.  I’ll be there.”

            “BRING along that Bennington (Vermont pottery made blue decorated stoneware) crock:  I’d like look at that again.”

            “Look at it or buy it?

            “You know; talk about it.

            “It’s perfect and it’s great.”

            “Yeah but you got it priced

            It’s gonna sell.  That’s what I’ve been selling:  Collector grade.  Real antiques with obvious quality.  Attractive.  Perfect condition.  Classic heritage, classic history, classic design (art history).  Stand alone decorative appeal.  You know: “I want that in my home”.  Mostly American made; New England.  They’re decorating with things that are stand alone ‘real good’.  YOU... don’t have anything like that to sell.”

            “Now just wait”.

            “No you don’t.  You don’t.  All you got for sale is old crummy stuff.  They want ‘real nice’ perfect and real.  Collector grade.”