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Table of ContentsForeword - Shawn Purcell Articles/Information Appraising for Booksellers - Shirley Dyess An Interview with Donald Hawthorne of Noahs Ark Book Attic - Shawn Purcell Meet Me in St. Louis - Joe Perlman Reference Desk Ephemeral Assays: Face Cards - Shawn Purcell Books About Bookselling: Fairs, Markets and the Itinerant Book Trade - Shawn Purcell Tool Box Book Expo America 2007: Its About People and Books - Laura Smith The Pros and Cons of Alibris.com for Buyers and Sellers - Chris Volk IOBA Bookseller Profiles Craig Horle and Laurie Wolfe of Classic Books and Ephemera Nancy Johnson of Nancy Johnson, Bookseller Brian Cassidy of Brian Cassidy, Bookseller Subscription and Archive How to Subscribe How to Unsubscribe Journal Archives Search Journal Archives Addenda Happy Hits Book em, Danno Blurbetes Book Blogs Ye Olde Booksellers Made in IOBA The Dignity of the Booksellers Calling Block and Tackle Pub Sale Tale Book Fallouts New, Voyager Images of Brattleboro Books Book Store Labels: Peabody Book Shop, Baltimore, MD Solicitations Booku Comic Books [The views expressed by writers for The Standard do not necessarily reflect the views of The IOBA.] |
Foreword
I recently received a review copy of Fairs, Markets and the Itinerant Book Trade (various editors and authors), hot off the Oak Knoll Press, those heroes of books about bookselling. It is based on papers given at the 27th annual conference on book trade history, and covers such diverse topics as the rise and fall of the early German fairs; itinerant booksellers, printers, and peddlers in Sixteenth-Century Spain and Portugal; the legal entanglements and Italian-French-Spanish book trade insights occasioned by the 1586 street murder of prominent publisher Symphorien Beraud; rural East Anglia and urban Netherlands distribution channels; Scottish chapmen; and London street booksellers in the period 1690-1850. In the end, this is really a labor history, though the writers clearly embrace the subject of bookselling more than most labor historians would feel akin to, say, fish mongering, or some other early trade. The tenuous thread of bookselling history recedes into the mists of time. The earliest references here are to the early modern era, where Latin works were brought to market at such internationally convenient gatherings as the Frankfurt fair. Eventually, colorful traveling merchants kept more popular printed material on hand for the edification of country folk. Books were carefully chosen due to the weight factor, and their main stock often consisted of more ephemeral leaflets, newsletters, pamphlets, songbooks, ballads, lurid broadsides, almanacs, prognostications, catchpenny prints, jest books, lampoons, nominas, and chapbooks. Street selling in towns and cities took on a variety of forms. There is a lengthy discussion of bookstalls, as opposed to barrows or mere boards on the ground, though all were hopeful stepping stones to the established shop. Hawkers would often gather a crowd by telling stories or singing from their texts, which were then sold on the spot. Itinerant peddlers and lowly street vendors, often blind or disabled, naturally left very little historical record. Finally, bookselling was a constantly evolving vocation, subject to a great number of natural and regulatory market forces, not the least of which was the law of supply and demand. The little we know of these early practices and networks comes down largely in the form of legal records. Inquisition-style religious intolerance, Old Bailey transcripts, and a myriad of minor disputes and proceedings have added to our understanding of an otherwise transitory means of existence. Researchers are also aided by early market registers, handbills, lists, guild minutes, tax data, licenses, correspondence, accounts, reminiscences, and the occasional engraving. Booksellers were centuries ahead of other trades in the development of trust and credit, and in the use of printed catalogs. Details emerge from these sources. In 1488 printer-publishers accounted for one-twelfth of the rental income for stalls at the Frankfurt fair. At one point there were 31 tolls on the Rhine just between Basle and Cologne, and it is calculated that such transportation costs added about a quarter to the price of the goods. Sigmund Feyerabend’s records for the years 1590-1597 shows he had around 350 customers from 110 different locations, 10-15% of these being individual readers not in the trade. Foreign imports at the Frankfurt fair declined from 39% down to 0.3% between the 1560s and 1710. A carrier is waylaid outside of Wimpfen and broken barrels of books thought to contain greater riches were ruined by a heavy rain (“There went my profit.”). There is even some speculation on the origin of double entry bookkeeping. An unspoken theme throughout this work is the trial and error of pioneer booksellers, often working under difficult and unstable conditions, that paved the way for us today (not to say that difficulty and instability have been eradicated). Anyway, I read this on the train to Manhattan on May 30, where the boys caught a rock concert at the Garden and the girls a Broadway play. Meandering along endless blocks, I observed modern street booksellers representative of those who came before. One sharp fellow was selling Curious George reprints off a folding table at two for $5, while another on her last legs guarded a hopeless sheet of crappy paperbacks. The weekend fleas resemble ancient fairs, and Book Rows have been springing up for millennia. This connection to the past is somehow reassuring in the middle of the internet revolution. I also dropped into Bauman Rare Books for a look at the pinnacle of the commercial aspect, and from there into the Grolier Club, which exists solely for the deep appreciation of the printed word. (Check out their current miniature books exhibit before the end of July if you have a chance.) We passed through the Diamond District on the way—also built on the backs of those who came before—where the pecking order and trading is even more intense, but what a cold and facetless commodity when compared to the beauty and mission of books. The electronic Standard arrayed in front of you includes a discussion of professional book appraising; an elegant interview with a modern old school bookseller who has been plying his trade since the 1940s; and a Perlman book trip to the Joe-Me state. There’s an ephemeral assay on fair of face postcards. Laura Smith tools over to Book Expo America; and Chris Volk presents the second installment (Alibris) in her series on search service Pros and Cons. There are Bookseller Profiles from PA, CO and CA; and there wasn’t much flotsam for the Addenda section so it’s mostly jetsam this time. October, then, for the next issue. Have a nice summer. IOBA Standard, Summer Edition 2007, Volume 8, No. 3. |
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“Meet Me in St. Louis,” or,
Joe Perlman
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Within the last four years I have been in the St. Louis area at least half a dozen times, but I have never had the chance to see the actual city. I have always traveled there on business with a group of colleagues, and since majority rules, we always stayed at Harrah’s, a casino hotel supposedly built on the river so it is exempt from local gaming restrictions, though it always looked to me like it was built on dry land. We would shuttle back and forth to the client’s offices in an industrial park in the suburbs, and the closest I got to the famous arch was to see it from the airplane, on the flight back to New York. In the evening, after long days of talking to difficult clients, my colleagues would unwind by playing high-stakes poker late into the night. I, in turn, would sit in the lobby after a tawdry casino buffet dinner and watch busload after busload of senior citizens race into the casino (some dragging oxygen tanks attached to their walkers) to wager their children’s inheritances. I quickly tired of this rather depressing spectacle and after wagering about $5 of my children’s inheritance on the slot machines, I’d head up to my room to read. A few weeks ago, my 20-something daughter who lives in Boston called in a quandary, because she had applied to graduate schools all over the country and been accepted by most of them. “I don’t know how I am ever going to be able to make a decision,” she said. “The two best schools that offered me financial aid are the University of Texas, at Austin, and Washington University in St. Louis. I have friends in Austin, so I am going down this weekend, but even if I like it I don’t know what to do about Washington University.” After almost a quarter of a century of acquaintance, I think I know my daughter pretty well. If she went down to St. Louis alone, and did not know anyone there, she would not leave with a very good impression of the place. Most likely, she would run from it like the plague. Since I am not a big fan of the state of Texas (I must confess this is based upon only 2 days in Dallas and 7 years of the Bush administration), I said, “I have a great idea. Why don’t you plan a trip to St. Louis the following week-end. Your Mom and I will fly down and meet you. She has never been there, and I have never had the chance to see the actual city. I can do some book-buying. It will be lots of fun.” My daughter hesitated. “Suppose we go and see the school and I don’t like it?” she asked. “I don’t want you to think you are wasting your time.” “This is strictly a spur of the moment adventure,” I tried to reassure her. “There is no obligation . . . at worst we will see a new city. And, I may even get to buy a few books.” I started to sing a few bars of “Meet me in St. Louis,” and she agreed to the plan. Ten days later, my wife and I were up at 4 A.M. on a Saturday, racing to the airport for a very early morning flight from LaGuardia to the Gateway to the West. I had put out a query on the web looking for bookshop recommendations, and was surprised that I received so few responses. I figured that since this was a university town there had to be some worthy bookshops and planned to do some research in the yellow pages once we arrived. The flight was unusually smooth, and we actually landed 45 minutes ahead of schedule. In spite of an interminable delay at the rental car office, we arrived at our downtown hotel mid-morning St. Louis time with the Boston contingent not expected until mid-afternoon. I went through the yellow pages and made up a list of shops before heading for some sustenance at the Depot, an old train station converted into a food court and shopping mall. After lunch I dropped my wife back at the hotel for a nap, checked the local map and drove over to the first used bookshop on my list, about 15 minutes away from downtown in a non-descript part of the city. It was a large warehouse type building well stocked in most categories. I explained that I was a dealer from New York. There was no dealer discount, but they were willing to ship any of my purchases for a small fee. I managed to find about a dozen books for re-sale, nothing extraordinary, as the prices were on the high side. Also with some prompting, I obtained the names of some other shops that I might be interested in. Fortunately, my daughter, too, arrived right on schedule. When I picked her up at the airport shuttle station she had an armful of research she had done about St. Louis neighborhoods, night clubs, restaurants, etc. After a quick stop at the hotel to drop off my daughter’s luggage and pick up my well-rested wife, we went out to explore the sights. 
Our first stop was a funky student neighborhood not far from Washington University known as “the Loop.” It looked more like a straight line of half a dozen blocks of shops and restaurants to me, but maybe we just never found the actual loop. The area is home to a first rate bookstore—Subterranean Books, a large shop containing a blend of both new and used items interspersed together. My daughter headed off towards the used clothing store across the street, and my wife accompanied me into the shop. As luck would have it, they were having a 40% off sale on all used fiction, so a dealer discount was unnecessary. They had a special section on counterculture literature, and I found some interesting Kerouac material for myself, as well as some great items for re-sale. I decided that since my suitcase was half empty, I would take this batch home with me. The owners were very friendly and we had a long conversation with them while waiting for the true family shopper. They had high praise for both the city and the University. We all reconvened at a local Mexican café, I with a large bag of books, and my daughter with an even larger bag of clothing. In honor of Cinco de Mayo we ordered “grande” marguerites accompanied by “muy grande” bowls of chips with salsa. The Loop is also the home of the St. Louis Walk of Fame, so before we left we paid tribute to some of the city’s literary luminaries such as T. S. Eliot, William Burroughs and Tennessee Williams, to name just a few. It was now time to move on to another neighborhood. We drove to an area called “the Hill,” which is the St. Louis equivalent of Little Italy in New York or Boston. It was surprisingly suburban looking, three or four blocks of widely spaced houses and apartments with about half a dozen Italian restaurants, one coffee bar and one Italian food shop interspersed among the residences. We broke tradition with the neighborhood by having dinner at the one non-Italian restaurant, an excellent Spanish tapas place. After dinner we headed over to yet another interesting neighborhood—Soulard. This is one of the oldest sections of the city. It is right near the river front, and the old warehouses are being converted into music clubs and bars. We found a lively bar with a local band that played a combination of blues and rock, so we sat on the terrace soaking up the ambience and enjoying the warm spring evening until it was time to return to our hotel.  Sunday morning, after a leisurely breakfast, it was time to visit the famous arch. We were all surprised both at its size and its beauty. It is a wonderful example of the philosophy that “less is more.” The design and the materials are perfectly simple, but it stands in a park by the river, glistening in the sun, and looks like a true symbolic gateway to the West that is the city’s claim to fame. Underground at the base of the arch is a museum dedicated to the Westward Expansion Movement.
I never knew that inside the arch there is a platform at the very top, and if one is willing to pay a fee and squeeze oneself into a tiny compartment with other adventurous strangers, one can actually be shuttled up to the top. The views were spectacular. Illinois is right across the river to the east, while the western windows provided a panorama of the entire city of St. Louis. We walked along the path by the edge of the river, admiring the arch from the ground, then headed for Forest Park, a very large park at the western end of the city, near Washington University. The park has playgrounds, ball fields, museums and gardens. There is also a very large zoo with free admission. The zoo is divided into habitat sections, and most of the habitats are large expanses that attempt to replicate the animals’ native environments. We saw the hippos and the rhinos and the famous baby elephant born at the zoo. We shivered through the penguin house, which is kept at about 40 degrees—great for penguins, but a bit chilly for humans in summer attire. As we left, we all agreed that the zoo was a wonderful gift especially to the young families of St. Louis as it provides a nice and affordable way to spend an afternoon. At dinner time we headed back to the Soulard neighborhood. This time we had a Cajun meal, served al fresco, to the accompaniment of another blues rock band. Monday was to be my major book-buying day. I dropped my wife and daughter off at the university, and headed for the Central West End, a beautiful neighborhood which looks like a more spacious version of New York’s Greenwich Village,  with low brownstone apartment buildings interspersed with interesting shops and sidewalk cafés. It is also home to a superb bookshop—Left Bank Books. This shop, too, contained a mix of both new and used books. This time they were segregated, with the new books on the street level, and the used books in the large well-lit basement. The used fiction section had some wonderful books, and I spent quite a bit of time pouring over the shelves. I selected a large carton of items, and arranged to have them shipped back to New York. My one regret is that I did not buy more books. I passed on some unusual new items, British imports, mostly, that I have not been able to find anywhere else. Alas, I should know better, as my motto is that what you regret the most are not the books that you bought, but the ones that you didn’t buy. I still remember that gorgeous copy of Confederacy of Dunces I saw in New Orleans back in 2001 for $700. Now the only copies I see are three times that price in half the condition. My next destination was a used book shop a few miles out of town in a nearby suburb south of the city. When I arrived, to my disappointment the shop was closed. I peered through the window and saw books piled from floor to ceiling. I made a mental note that it would definitely be worth returning on my next visit. I was in need of a cup of coffee, so I asked someone where I could buy one. They recommended a shop called the St. Louis Bread Company. I walked in and it looked just like the ubiquitous Panera that we have back home. I asked the waitress if they had been taken over by Panera. She explained that Panera started out as the St. Louis Bread Company. They changed the name when they went national, since St. Louis in not known for its bread. The only stores that retain the original name are in St. Louis. St. Louis is also the birthplace of both the Burroughs adding machine and Tums. I arrived back at campus about half an hour early, so I decided to investigate its bookstore. This was final exam week and with the semester winding down there were tables full of clearance books all throughout the store. I found some inexpensive, esoteric university press literary treatises that I expect I will be able to sell in due course. We had just enough time for a very late lunch in a town right near the University, before heading to the airport. During the meal we talked about my daughter’s impressions of the city, and the university. She was still in a quandary, as she liked both schools, and each had its own plusses and minuses. My wife and I urged her to take some time to think about her impressions before rushing into a decision. We parted company at the airport, she heading to Boston, us to New York. As we said goodbye, we all agreed that whatever the outcome, the weekend had been a success. We had visited a new city and had a great time. I had even managed to purchase a fair number of books. A few days later, the phone rang. “Dad,” my daughter said, excitedly. “I made my decision . . . (long pause) . . . After much thought I decided to go to the University of Texas at Austin.” “Congratulations,” I replied. “I am glad that you made a decision. Well, I guess in October after you are settled in, I will have the chance to explore another new city.” I certainly hope that it has at least a few bookstores. According to the New Yorker magazine, their library has one of the best literary archives in the United States. In the meantime, I better start learning a few bars of “Deep in the Heart of Texas.” Joe Perlman operates Mostly Useful Fictions out of East Northport, NY and can be contacted at http://www.mostlyusefulfictions.com. IOBA Standard, Summer Edition 2007, Volume 8, No. 3. |
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Happy HitsExcerpts from recent online book descriptions.-Very Good. Dust Jacket Condition: Acceptable. Heavy edge and cover wear, some faux stains, inside great!! -Corners bumped, Spine worn at top and bottom with teat at center. -Book Condition: Good. No Jacket. 4to - over 9 3/4" - 12" Tall. 407 pp. For years 1907, 1908, 1909. All the main color plates have been cut out of book; also, a few pages are loose from binding. Spine cocked, some soil to covers; edge & corner wear. Ex-lib w/stamps to front & rear endpapers. -At some point in book's peregrinations, a phoney three dollar bill was laid-in. -Included are a bit of ephemera: A page from the magazine Tops, advertising the 1940 P. C. A. M. Convention July 21 to 27, 1940 (Pacific Coast Assoc. of Magicians?). an unidentified snapshot of two males who one must but asume are muscians and an 8 by 10 sepia half-tone photograph inscribed To Bob Hammer with best wishes from Oscar and his stooge George “Quiver Lip” McAthy, 1944. 
Book ‘em, DannoIoba is one of the 45 provinces of Burkina Faso in West Africa. The capital of Ioba is Dano, almost as in “Book ‘em, Danno” from the classic TV series Hawaii Five-O. IOBA, the Independent Online Booksellers Association, sells books. Coincidence? Probably.BlurbettesNotorious C.O.P. by Derrick Parker with Matt Diehl (NY: St. Martin’s Press, 2006) features a simulated bullet hole on the front panel of the dust jacket. The entry point is very smooth, but the automobile or recording studio glass it penetrated feels fractured to the touch, like it was real. The three brownish blood drops are also embossed. I contacted St. Martin’s Press with some questions about the process involved, the design spec language used, and the additional printing cost, but nobody got back to me.
From the front inside flap. “As head of the first special force unit devoted exclusively to the investigation of hip-hop crime, first-grade [that seems awfully young] detective Derrick Parker worked on some of the biggest criminal cases in rap history. From the shooting at Club New York to the murder of Tupac Shakur, Derrick was on the inside of hip-hop’s most notorious crimes. “Always straddling the fence between “po-po” [gangsta slang for cop] and NYPD outsider, Derrick threatened police tradition to try to get the cases solved. He was the first New York detective on the Biggie Smalls’ [why the apostrophe?] murder and discovered shocking and never-before-revealed information from an unlikely informant. He protected one of the only surviving eyewitnesses to the Jam Master Jay murder and knows the identities of the killers as well as the motivation behind the shooting. “Notorious C.O.P. reveals hip-hop crimes that never made the papers—like the robbing of Foxy Brown [hold the press!] and the first Hot 97 shooting—and answers some lingering questions about murders that have remained unsolved. “The book that both the NYPD and the hip-hop community don’t want you to read, Notorious C.O.P. is the first insider look at the real links between crime and hip-hop and the inefficiencies that have left some of the most widely publicized murders in entertainment history unsolved.” From the rear inside flap. “Derrick Parker is a twenty-year veteran of the NYPD who headed the first special force unit dedicated to the investigation of hip-hop-related crime. Now off the force, Parker serves as the media’s rap-related crime expert, appearing in Rolling Stone, New York magazine, Vibe, Blender, The New York Times, Newsday, and dozens of other magazines and newspapers as well as on Unsolved Mysteries and shows on MTV, Fox, VH1, and Court TV. “Matt Diehl is a journalist whose work has appeared in Rolling Stone, The New York Times, The Washington Post, GQ, VIBE [they went with all caps in this second mention of Vibe, probably under the influence of GQ’s caps], Spin, The Village Voice, and Blender [not to be confused with Spin]. He served as the music columnist for Elle magazine for four years and now serves as the music editor-at-large for Interview magazine. His first book was No-Fall Snowboarding.” From the rear panel (busy cop’s desk motif, blurbs on typescript sheet with coffee cup and stain rings, crumpled up piece of yellow legal paper, folders and pads underneath). “Yeah, you know me. I’m the guy The Miami Herald called the ‘hip-hop cop’ when they ran a story about the [really big] binder I’d compiled for the NYPD detailing the criminal history of over nine hundred hip-hop artists and associates. Yeah, that was me. “In my duties as NYPD’s hip-hop cop, I investigated some of the biggest names in music. The Club New York shooting involving Sean ‘Diddy’ Combs, Shyne, and Jennifer Lopez, I was there. The Hot 97 shooting that Lil’ Kim is now serving time for—who do you think they called on? [The hip-hop cop?] Cases involving the Wu-Tang Clan, 50 Cent, Nas, DMX, Foxy Brown—I worked them all. [Foxy Brown’s Wikipedia entry includes eight “Legal run-ins” for such offenses as spitting on two hotel workers in Raleigh who could or would not provide an iron; crashing her Range Rover; an altercation with an airport policewoman in Jamaica; attacking two manicurists in Chelsea over a disputed bill; getting handcuffed to a bench for fifteen minutes on order of a Manhattan judge until she agreed to apologize to the court for sticking her tongue out when asked to stop chewing gum; throwing hair glue at and spitting on a Broward County beauty parlor employee who told her it was closing time, and swatting at the arms of the police officer who tried to escort her from the shopping plaza back to the salon; and a couple of minor court violations.] “As a rookie detective, I patrolled the mean streets of Brooklyn and Queens. I was involved in one of the first cases that would bust drug impresarios Kenneth ‘Supreme’ McGriff, Lorenzo ‘Fat Cat’ Nichols, and Howard ‘Pappy’ Mason. “I spent years learning and investigating hip-hop on both sides of the fence. [Several paragraphs ago he said he was “straddling” the fence—two different things.] I know the people behind the music and the people they mythologize. There have been numerous books exploring the murders of Tupac, Biggie, and now Jam Master Jay, but as I am the original ‘hip-hop cop,’ no one has ever been where I’ve been, seen what I’ve seen, or knows what I know—and now I’m laying it all out on the line.” At the end of the day, I am confused by this dust jacket. Is glorified crime and violence good or bad? If the author knows who was behind big unsolved hip-hop murders, why are they still unsolved? Is Fox News more righteous than the NYPD? Maybe it’s a good book and an important contribution to the history of rap, and the author had nothing to do with all this hype. Either way, that’s what libraries are for. Book BlogsThe Blog of Brian Cassidy, Booksellerhttp://briancassidy.net/blog/?s Posted 6/6/2007 “24 Hours in the Life of a Used Book” I always have mixed feelings when a book I care about is chosen by Oprah for her book club (The Corrections, House of Sand and Fog, Night, East of Eden, Light in August…). On the one hand, I like that good books get read and that reading as a pastime is endorsed on such a mass level. These are undeniably good things. At the same time, I always fear some author debacle (see James Frey or Jonathan Franzen) or worry that in the meeting of mass culture and fine literature, the latter ends up the loser. I’m thinking of moments like when on an early Oprah book club episode one woman complained to Toni Morrison that she had trouble understanding some passages and found herself needing to review. “Yes, my dear,” Morrison replied in her imperious tone, “We call that READING.” 
And now, on the day she snagged Cormac McCarthy’s only TV interview ever, Oprah had anointed Jeffrey Eugenides’ Pulitzer-winning novel, Middlesex. I had a couple copies in stock at the shop, so when I heard of the selection I headed over to Amazon to see what was happening with the online price and decide if I should bother listing my copies. Though at first it appeared not much was going on, as the above chart demonstrates (click to enlarge), the power of Oprah is not to be underestimated. Oprah single-handedly cut the number of available used copies by more than half (from 375 to about 160) and nearly tripled the asking price (from $2.88 to $7.50), all in a scant 24 hours. A few clarifications: First, this data is for the “old” trade paperback edition only (as opposed to the new “Oprah” edition). Second, that plummeting price for new copies represents the fact that Amazon sold out of the “old” edition (demonstrated by the fact they say copies will ship in “1-3 weeks”). Third, note the impressive jump in sales rank (500 or so to 17). Oprah, we bow before your mighty influence. Ye Olde BooksellersAdventures in American Bookshops, Antique Stores and Auction Rooms by Guido Bruno (Detroit: The Douglas Book Shop, 1922) is a swell little thing, the one in hand numbered 898 of 1,000 printed, with bumped corners and cracked hinges, at 125 pp. plus the index. It mostly covers New York City, excerpted in this issue; with brief stops in Chicago, Boston, and other cities that will have to wait until next time. The first passage is from his preface, and then we get good snapshots of many predecessors.“On reading the proofs, I feel I have not done justice to my bookselling friends. I wandered into their shops, I browsed among their books, I listened to their talk and wrote it down . . . . pictures not studies, impressions not descriptions. Some of my friends have since passed on to a better world and in these pages will be found perhaps the only record of their useful and laborious lives. This, I believe, is an excuse for the existence of my little book.” The Salvation Army Books and magazines are turned over at once to the book department, which conducts a book store on Fourteenth Street near Union Square, not in the name of the Salvation Army, but in the name of the Reliance Book Store. Its employees are experienced booksellers who do not wear the Salvation uniform. In fact, every possible indication that this store belongs to the Salvation Army is carefully concealed. Magazines are here sold wholesale to other dealers or retail to you or to me or to anybody. The magazines given to the Salvation Army by charitable people are sold for from five to fifteen cents each. A very well-equipped rare book department attracts collectors from all over the city; “Book Prices Current” is the guide for the sales prices. School books are sold in great quantities. I believe the profit of this shop to be far greater than of any other book shop in the city, as its proprietors do not need to pay for the books they are selling. There seems to be a good deal of hypocrisy in concealing the fact that the Salvation Army owns the Reliance Book Store. Why not put a sign out that would tell everyone that the books and magazines sold have been received as gifts for the poor and sick by the Salvation Army? In New York Book Shops Every city has its book streets. Book shops are gregarious, and they grow like mushrooms in groups. There is little competition in the book business. No matter how large and complete the stock of a second-hand book dealer may be, his neighbor’s collection will be quite different. The clients of second-hand bookshops like to “browse about,” they seldom ask for a certain book and they love to have a large territory in which to hunt. The location of book streets changes with the growth of a city. Seventy-five years ago the book centre of New York was far downtown on Ann Street; after the Astor Library opened its doors, Fourth Avenue became the city center and soon was lined with picturesque bookshops. The city grew and Twenty-third Street became the Dorado of the book-hunter. Then people began to make immense fortunes and build palaces and mansions on Fifth Avenue, Central Park was opened to the public. . . .and Fifty-ninth Street became the book street of New York. Ever further the city expanded. Harlem grew in population and One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street is another shopping center for lovers of books and objects of art. Most of the book dealers kept step with the times. They moved from street to street. The grandfather had been prominent on Ann Street, the son on Fourth Avenue, and the grandson flourishes on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth. Fourth Avenue has come to honors again during the past four years. Some big book dealers had the idea to move back to old “booksellers row,” new people soon gathered around them and today most of the second-hand book business of the United States is transacted here on this old street, surrounded by a ramshackle neighborhood, invaded by factory buildings and sweatshops. But some book dealers could never make up their minds to move. They stuck to their shops. They are the landmarks of New York’s book streets. The Den of a Pessimist The Nestor of the book dealers who “have remained” and have withstood the trend of the times is E. A. Custer on Fifty-ninth Street. Right near Park Avenue, next to a livery stable in the cellar of an old-fashioned brownstone house, is his picturesque shop. Large bookstalls with hundreds of books invite you to rummage about, quaint paintings and drawings will arrest your attention and make you stop even if you are in a hurry. Firearms of all descriptions, swords and shining armor add a war touch that seems quite appropriate in our time. If you look closer you see a pale face with keen black eyes behind the show window. You have to look very closely in order to detect it. And if you enter the store you will meet the proprietor of face and store, sitting at his look-out, watching his stalls, scrutinizing the passers-by who stop to glance at his wares. He continues in his position while he is talking to you; he never takes his eyes from his treasures, even while waiting on a customer, or delving into the depths of his shop. “I have to watch my property,” he offers as explanation while excusing himself. “I am listening to what you say,” he adds, “don’t mind if I don’t look at you while we talk. All people who stop out there to look at my books are thieves, and if I give them a chance to get away with my books they prefer to acquire them that way rather than to buy. They steal from earliest childhood and never cease until they are dead. I have been forty years in this very place and I know what I am talking about. And though I am as watchful as a dog, I lose about twenty per cent of the stock that I put in my stalls through thieving. All book collectors are thieves; people who never would think of taking anything else without paying for it must think a bookshop is different from all other stores. Their consciences are not sin-stricken if they incidentally slip a book they like into their pocket and walk out with it. I have long ceased to read books. I read human nature for my pastime. “There is not a day that I do not lose books by theft. Take for instance last week. I had a set of Dickens on my stands. A cheap edition on the table where I keep my books for boys. I saw a little freckled, red-haired, bare-footed lad inspecting the Dickens books for longer than half an hour. Some time later he came back and looked at them again. This time he had a few books under his arm. He laid his books on the table and managed very cleverly to pick them up after a while together with one of my Dickens books. The boy really wanted to read the book and I let him get away with it. I knew that he was passing my shop every day, and I thought of speaking to him another time. “The next day he came again, inspected the remaining volumes of my Dickens set for a few minutes, repeated his trick of the day before and stole another volume. He came every day and acquired six of the seven volumes. It was only on Saturday that he stole the sixth volume; this time I went after him, told him sternly to come back with me, handed him the seventh volume and said to him: “'Here, my boy, I don't keep open on Sunday, and somebody might buy this one and spoil your set. Better take it along. You have the right spirit. Continue and one of these days you will find yourself a millionaire. Perhaps then you will endow libraries.'” “But,” I interjected, “mustn't it be dreadful to sit in your shop day after day as a sort of watchman?” “I'm accustomed to it,” he answered, “and that's the only way I can make my business pay. It was not always so. There was a time when people really loved books and bought them in order to read. Then they had time to read. The successful man of today has an automobile, has to go out joy-riding after business hours, has to spend his time in cabarets and road-houses. He needs books only as decorations when he buys a home or furnishes an apartment. And then he leaves it usually to his decorator to choose the most attractive and expensive bindings in keeping with the color scheme of his library. “I tell you, New Yorkers don't know books, don't want to know them. The men read newspapers, the women magazines, and the young people trashy novels. Of course there are our modern book collectors. They know as much about the commercial values of books as I do. They buy books as an investment, just like pictures. They follow the auction sales and gamble in books. You can hardly call such people booklovers. Thirty years ago I used to have comfortable chairs in my shop and in the evening big business men, lawyers, and physicians would drop in and examine at leisure some tomes that I had laid before them because I knew they were interested in this or that subject. Today most of the men who are interested in books are so poor that they can hardly pay their room rent.” And then he proceeded to show me some of his treasures. “Who do you think buys this sort of books in our day? Dealers, nobody but dealers. And they sell them again to dealers. Finally they find their way into the auction rooms and are bought again by a dealer.” A Whitman Enthusiast He loves Twenty-third Street and intends to stick there till the last house is transformed into a factory. You almost fall into his shop from the street, so steep are the stairs and tread-worn. He has the instinct of the born second-hand book dealer to find out-of-the-way books on out-of-the-way subjects. There is always something unusual in his shop, and his prizes are within the reach of the poor man's purse. He likes his books and he likes to sell them to good homes. And therefore he often fits his price to the purchaser's purse. His hobby is Walt Whitman. He has the most famous collection of Whitman items in this country, even larger and more extensive than the one Horace Traubel has guarded. He has original manuscripts of Whitman, proof sheets of his books, everything that was ever written in any language about Walt Whitman, more than four hundred pictures of the “good, gray poet,” and you couldn't buy one of those precious things for any money in the world. An Optimist “If one keeps a bookshop something unusual happens almost every day. It is the uncertainty of the book business that always attracts me. Of course every book dealer who wants to make a decent living must have a specialty of his own. Mine is architectural books. I have a large clientele of architects and decorators; I know these books well, and they were the backbone of my business. Chance and good luck are the great factors in the book dealer’s life. Let me tell you a few instances: “A few months after I opened my shop at the time of the big auction sales, I felt very gloomy. Of course I needed cash in order to buy books, and I did not have it. One morning one of my best customers walked into my shop and asked for a copy of Canina’s Ancient Rome. I told him that the book was so scarce that there was no use to ask for it. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I am willing to give you two hundred and fifty dollars for it any time you bring me a copy.’ The very same afternoon I noticed a copy of the book in an auction catalog to be sold the next day. I went to the auction and sat there shaking like a leaf, waiting for the first bid after the book was put up. Nobody seemed to be interested to buy it. Somebody bid five dollars, and I got it finally for six dollars and seventy-five cents. I had it wrapped up, took it around the corner to my customer and collected two hundred and fifty dollars. That was the first real money I made, and it gave me a chance to acquire better books.” A Gambler On Thirty-fourth, near Lexington Avenue, Jerome Duke has opened a bookshop of a peculiar sort. It is not exactly a book shop because there are antiques and curiosities all over the place. The books are thrown together topsy-turvy, Latin authors, modern novelists, theological books, old French tomes and German philosophers. I asked the proprietor about his books and his answer was: “I don’t know anything about them. I never read books and would not be bothered with them. I buy them at a certain price and I try to sell them at a profit. In fact, I intend to buy anything I can get cheap enough, no matter what it is. I went into the book game in order to gamble and I am going to gamble on anything that people bring in here. “There is one thing I have just refused to buy because the man wanted too much for it. He said that he had recently returned from Europe, had been a soldier, and wanted to sell me the embalmed finger of a German general. I forget the name of the general, but the man said that it was authentic and that he would sign a document before a notary public, swearing that he had been present at the time the finger was cut off of the general’s hand. Now, if he had asked fifty cents or a dollar, I would have been willing to take a chance, because it would make a good window display in this time of war; but he wanted five dollars, and I couldn’t see my way clear. That’s too much of a chance, to stake a five-spot on an embalmed finger of a German general. So I bought a slipper instead. It belonged to a Madame Jumel, and she is supposed to have worn it on the day that she got her divorce from Aaron Burr. I paid a dollar for it and I consider it a pretty sound gamble.” “How so?” I asked. “Well,” he answered, ”because Aaron Burr was the second Vice-President of the United States.” Of course that argument was final, and I wished him luck with his purchase. The Oxford Book Shop If you wish to know what authors Mr. Goldsmith does not like, look at his ten-cent stand in front of the shop. Extraordinary values can be had there for one dime, because Mr. Goldsmith does not like the books. Casement’s Book Emporium All his books are alphabetically arranged and I don’t wonder that many a scarce book can be found amongst his stock. Mr. Casement is a solitary figure among the book dealers of New York. Very silent, always kindly, smiling, obliging and unassuming. Often in the twilight, when he drinks his cup of coffee, and eats his herring with rye bread, I love to drop in and watch his self-content and real satisfaction with his life and with his lot. He is the only happy man among all the book dealers in New York—from hope and fear set free—content among his books. The Man Who Knows His Books A spotlessly clean little store on Thirty-eighth Street near Sixth Avenue, book shelves all around the walls, friendly pictures right beneath the ceiling. In the middle of the room a little desk, and in a chair before it Mr. Corbett, who prides himself on having read every book that he ever sold. Jack London used to spend hours here whenever he was in New York, and Edwin Markham received a good deal of inspiration from Mr. Corbett’s suggestions. Literary hack writers are his daily visitors; to call them customers would be too optimistic. He dreams of magazine articles, he invents titles for them and he sells you for a few pennies all the material to write them if you happen to be a journalist on the lookout for suggestions. He had his own peculiar ideas of what people should read and what they shouldn’t read, and it is not an unusual occurrence that, for instance, a young girl should enter his shop and ask for a certain book, and he would answer: “Yes, I have it, but you shouldn’t read it, and I won’t sell it to you.” And then he will tell her about some other book, and picture it in such desirable colors that she will change her mind and buy it instead. “You know,” he told me once, “the bookseller has a very important mission in life. The writer writes his books, but he doesn’t know into whose hands they will fall, the publisher sells them as merchandise to dealers all over the country, but we little shop-keepers come in contact with the real readers. It’s up to us to place something in their hands that might be decisive for their future career, that might inspire them to great and noble thoughts, and that might make criminals out of them. A few pennies that we might gain might mean the perdition of lives and souls.” Mr. Stammer, Their Great Patron Do you ask “How do all these people manage to darn a livelihood?” Mr. Stammer, the great book dealer from Fourth Avenue, whose specialty is hunting up every book that anybody in the United States might desire, no matter when and where printed, and who knows the most obscure book dealer in the most obscure part of New York, answered this question: “Because two-thirds of the book dealers in New York are selling exclusively almost to the remaining third. The big book dealers very rarely buy books from private sources. These little book shops are our vanguards, that collect the honey for us and we come and take whatever we can use, or they bring it to us, and we are glad to have them come regularly.” Mr. Stammer makes his round to these small book dealers almost constantly every day. He is their educator and patron. He tells them what books are worth money, and he pays a good price whenever he can use them. He is a welcome figure on rent day, and most of the treasures of these cobwebbed corners wander to the comfortable shelves of his palace on Fourth Avenue. Mr. Madigan’s Interesting Shop A complete change of scene. The most fashionable shopping district of New York, just around the corner of Fifth Avenue in Forty-fifth Street. A window filled with expensively framed autographs marks the sanctum of Mr. Francis P. Madigan. He is a jovial man who has all the qualities which make for the success of our Fifth Avenue art shops. He knows when to stop talking, he knows when to say “the word” which closes the deal: he sells to his customers, they do not buy from him. The high walls are hung with innumerable autographs in appropriate frames, signed portraits of great celebrities; some little drawings and sketches by lesser know artists—Mr. Madigan also dabbles in art. His specialty is selling books signed by their authors. He is one of the few men who realized Oscar Wilde’s importance at a time when no one paid much attention to this unfortunate poet. In the course of years he collected a mass of Oscar Wilde material, and he is now reaping the harvest. I spent an afternoon in his shop. Quite a study for the observer of human souls was the procession of visitors who came and went continuously. They pay for autographs of men who never could even sell their work during their lives. Mr. Madigan has sold more Poe material during the last ten years than anybody else. Poor Poe! During his entire literary career he hardly got in direct returns as much money as this dealer in dead men’s letters receives for one single epistle. Schulte’s Book Store Scattered about the throbbing city are a few quiet nooks and corners that seem especially made for the lover of antiques. They are not numerous, but full of a certain charm. Book stores, with big boxes in front of the doors, where you can choose for your pennies, tomes in old-fashioned binding and printing. Inside are shelves laden with books in delightful disorder left by the book-hunter who looked through them before you. The narrow passageway becomes narrower on each visit you pay to the shop because of newly-arrived books and pamphlets. A long vista of boxes and cases well filled with a delightful miscellany of books marks the front of Mr. Schulte’s book store on the southwest corner of 23rd Street and Lexington Avenue. Don’t cast suspicious looks at the nice girls in immaculate white blouses who loiter about the aisles. They won’t interfere with you. They won’t ask you any questions. You will soon feel at home after you have glanced at the titles of the books on any shelf, and if you meet Mr. Schulte he won’t be a stranger to you. There is such a deep-founded relationship between the man and his books and customers. He is the appreciative, sympathetic co-collector and, after you have gained his confidence, if the friendship is mutual, he will spread out his gems before you: a first edition with a rare imprint, or some unknown etching by Whistler or Haden or Zorn. George D. Smith, Speculator in Literary Property A new type of bookseller has developed since books and literary property have become commercial and subject to corners created by shrewd buyers and holders, and to fluctuations caused by selling en masse. Mr. George D. Smith, the king of rare books and great dealer in literary property, operates on the largest scale. Mr. Smith buys carloads of books for millions of dollars and sells again by the carload to millionaires who build palaces in California and who order their libraries complete. Mr. Smith is the leading figure in our auction houses where he buys, excluding all competition, by paying an exorbitant price for anything he desires to possess. He is a millionaire and the chief counselor of our nouveaux riches when they furnish their homes with rare autographs and valuable books. Mr. Cadigan of Brentano’s After you have passed the stairway in Brentano’s leading to the basement and properly admired the framed autographs and signed portraits which cover the walls, you will pass the gate that leads into the kingdom of Mr. Cadigan, another dealer in literary property but of quite a different type. Mr. Cadigan is the head of Brentano’s periodical department. He knows the development of the American magazine better than anybody else living. For a score of years he has watched successes and failures, but nearest to his heart are the magazines of those men who have had the courage to stand up for their own ideas and their own conception of the world. Some of the most pathetic figures in American letters have founded magazines of their own; they would not follow the example of their contemporaries or submit to the wishes of their publishers and to the presumed desires of the reading public. Mr. Cadigan knows them all. He recommends them if he thinks them commendable. While the gigantic trusts of our American news companies afford them very little or no chances for circulation, Mr. Cadigan adopts them and presents them for sale on his table next to the full-fledged product of the capitalistic press. I get more satisfaction and pleasure out of Brentano’s basement devoted to periodicals than out of all the periodical reading rooms of all our public libraries combined, with the Carnegie institutions thrown in. To be able to look over the current issues of magazines and to take home just the interesting ones carries with it an intimate satisfaction. 
Made in IOBAElizabeth Svendsen of Blue Jacket Books is co-author, with her father (and under her maiden name) of The Sorcerer's Companion, A Guide to the Magical World of Harry Potter (NY: Broadway Books, 2001; 2004 second edition), by Allan Zola Kronzek and Elizabeth Kronzek.
The Dignity of the Bookseller’s CallingSubmitted by Rockford E. Toews (http://www.backcreekbooks.com)Block and TackleI seem to have the only online copy of the improbably titled Nine Lives on Four Coasts: Autobiography/Confession/Love Story of an Educational Administrator, by Byron F. Evans (Urbana, IL: Prairie Publications, 2004 first edition. Signed and warmly inscribed by the author. $35.00). I received the following IOBAbooks query about this offering.-3/16/2007 12:10 A.M. Customer inquiry: Hi, How are you today? and how are you doing? I am interested in this book, let me know the last price you are willing to sell it, and also let me know if you accept check as form of payment, I could have called you but it was unfortunate that I'm hearing Impaired. I am looking forward to read from you, David Block. david_block1@yahoo.com -3/16/2007 1:28 A.M. If you would like to order this book, I accept payment by check, money order, PayPal, or credit card. The total comes to $38.00, to include Media Mail shipping. If you email me your confirmation and method of payment now, I can prepare the book for shipping. -3/16/2007 10:11 A.M. Hi Shawn, Thanks for your email, I am okay with your price, please let me know if pickup is acceptable. I am looking forward to read from you. -3/16/2007 12:07 P.M. Sorry but pickup is not convenient for me. [At this point, somebody on the IOBA Discuss list mentioned a similar scam, and we all learned that this same technique was previously attempted against Biblio booksellers. What makes this a bit different is that he chooses titles you actually own, and then sets up a transaction where you get a bogus check for a larger amount and must send him a refund before his “shipper” comes to your business or home in order to pick the book up. It is clumsy, but particularly offensive enough for me to respond, as he had my email address anyway.] -3/18/2007 11:21 A.M. Sorry but it looks like the book you ordered is out of stock. I thought you might be interested in an alternative to this work. It is titled A Biographical Encyclopedia of Pathetic Lowlifes. Just send me a check for a larger amount, and I will send a refund to wherever you say. -3/19/2007 6:20 A.M. Thanks for your email, I am okay with your price, please let me know if pickup is acceptable. I am looking forward to read from you. -3/19/2007 4:49 P.M. Read my previous message again, moron. -3/20/2007 5:29 A.M. Yes, I know. I am intersted in the Biographical Encyclopedia of Pathetic Lowlifes. I just want to know if pickup is acceptable. I am looking forward to read from you, Thank You. -3/20/2007 8:21 P.M. Yes, pickup is acceptable. The total is $38.00. Do you live near me? -3/20/2007 9:55 P.M. Hi. The check I'll send you will be in excess amount, the amount I'll write on the check will be higher than the amount to demand for, so the amount written on the check will contains my shipper's funds. So when it clears your bank deduct your funds, and wire the balance to my shipper to enable him pickup the book from your territory. If you are okay by this arrangement, kindly get back to me with your name, address and phone number so that I can write the check asap. Thank You. -3/20/2007 10:00 P.M. How much higher than $38.00 will your check be? -3/29/2007 9:39 P.M. Hello Shawn, Have you received the check? -3/29/2007 9:57 P.M. Hi again David. I haven't been to the Post Office recently, as it is a long journey from my village, but plan to do so shortly. Please let me know how much over $38.00 it is. What amount did you write the check for? Thanks. -4/19/2007 12:41 A.M. I have been to my post office and there is no check there from you. Do you still want to order this book? If not, I would like to take it off hold in case anybody else wants it. Please let me know as soon as possible. Thank you. -4/19/2007 8:28 P.M. I am sorry for the late response, I was not filling fine, but I am okay now. please I would need a mailing address, rather than post office box. I will send the check first thing tommorow morning. I am looking forward to read from you. -4/19/2007 8:28 P.M. Sorry but we only have a Post Office box. -4/19/2007 8:46 P.M. Okay I'll send it there tommorow morning. Thank You. -4/28/2007 12:12 P.M. Hi, have you received the check? -5/2/2007 8:37 P.M. No. Does your mother know what you do for a living? -5/3/2007 12:06 A.M. why do you said so? -5/3/2007 12:41 A.M. Because you (“David Block/Tom Grant”) are a well known scammer who cheats people out of their hard-earned money by lying to them. Most Biblio and IOBAbooks booksellers know better than to send you payment for the “shipper's funds” difference between the actual cost of the book and the big bad check you send them. First of all this is a really stupid way to try and cheat people, though apparently some are fooled or you wouldn't still be doing it, and secondly we have all shared your emails and discussed your methods. Chances are your mother would be ashamed of this behavior. Get a real and honest job, before it is too late. [At this point, our online correspondence comes to an end.] Pub Sale Tale by Bruce ToberI've become something of a hermit in the past couple of months. Takes all I can do to leave the flat and usually only manage to do so 2 or 3 times a week for a couple or 3 hours each.Today was one of those days. Took til about 10am to force myself out the door. While walking to the bus tried to decide on where to go. Finally got to the bus stop and decided on taking the 451 route. That left me with 3 choices, village 1, town or village 2. By the time we got to village 1 I decided I'd not been there in quite a while so might as well. Stopped in at each of the 4 or 5 charity shops and found nothing (not surprising, they've had nothing but pretty new take on holiday books for a couple of years). So I stopped for a Guinness (hadn't had breakfast, let alone lunch yet). I immediately recognised the pub. It was where I bought a load of books (from one of their rooms, the decor of which is Edwardian library) last year. I talked to the manager and made the arrangements, which he was totally amenable to. I walked out having finished my Guinness, with about 30 books. I gave the manager £20 (later found out that I'd actually given him a £10 by mistake) which he was more than happy with. I've only checked two of the books so far (each bought for about £0.30) and one's going to list for £60 (first edition of a physics book by the 1924 Nobel Prize for Physics recipient) and the other one's going to list for about £40 (a Mrs Beeton's Every-Day Cookery from the 1930s). And many of the others look likely to make a very nice price. Damn! I love this business. Submitted by Bruce Tober (http://www.star-dot-star.net) Book Fallouts
New, VoyagerMy 1997 Plymouth Grand Voyager ceased to exist a couple months back, at least in the form I was familiar with. We were having overheating problems with both vehicles, and the original dealership thought the Voyager only needed a new thermostat and water pump. Monroe Muffler (our garage of choice) previously detected the need for a vastly more expensive head gasket job, but they are not allowed to work on engines. When the repair did not solve the overheating problem, I just took it easy on the van for a few days, topping it off with coolant between eruptions until we had the time and funds to deal with this. The Subaru going to my daughter just received a new head gasket of its own, plus all new brakes and tires, and we were in the process of buying a new vehicle to replace it, so the timing was not good.
Anyway, I was a couple towns away taking my mother to McDonald’s when the guy at Window Two looked down and exclaimed, “Holy Crap!” Detecting steam coming up from the engine, I pulled back to the fairly remote and empty parking lot we eat in when visiting this establishment, in order to deal with the problem there. Stepping out of the vehicle, I noticed blistering hood metal, which is never a good sign. At about this time I also realized that the steam was actually smoke. Raising my hood with some caution, there was a nice little engine fire going on down there, on the driver and battery side. The Number 10 Filet-O-Fish sandwich meal comes with a big ass Coke, which I carefully poured down on the conflagration, and although it was largely quelled, it’s pretty hard to put out burning rubber and oily engine parts, and it licked back up again right quick. Mom’s smaller Coke and two bottles of spring water were also put to use, to no avail. I considered driving my flaming van back to McDonald’s in order to borrow their fire extinguisher, but saving Mom’s life and calling 911 seemed the better plan. Beating on the now fully involved engine with a wet packing sheet while waiting for the police and fire trucks, I realized that emptying the vehicle of anything I ever wanted to see again probably made more sense, and when that was done we waited pretty far away in case it blew. Long story short, it took two police extinguishers and a fire pumper to cool things off, and we had a nice quiet five minutes to eat our cold food (with no drinks) between the departure of the authorities and the arrival of the wife and tow truck. The Allstate adjustor was sympathetic to my plight, but he could not help prove that faulty repairs led to the fire, as all the evidence was in one molten mass. The dealership was very quick to deny any culpability, though they were kind enough to let it sit there for a few days earning storage fees. $2,500 plus change was the best he could do, which is not that bad for a 1997 with 130,000 miles. I visited the old girl a few days later to drop off the seats (an extra $150 for that) and to pick up a parking lot hang tag missed in the sweep, and they actually had to cut a rectangle in the hood in order to gain access. All this was sad, as we’d spent so much time together.  So I halfheartedly looked for a replacement until a Monday morning was coming up where three of us would need to go to work in three different directions with one vehicle. I’d been holding out for a slightly newer model of the same van. The Plymouth Grand Voyager and her sister the Dodge Grand Caravan were the bookseller’s vehicle of choice for awhile there. I remember doing book shows where the parking lot during setup looked like a Plymouth dealership. The sliding doors are great, it can hold an enormous amount of books, and if you do antiques as well it will accommodate a ten foot dining room table and still close in the back. I even wanted the same color, metallic pearl green with the grey interior. After several weeks of near misses and jamming book call booty and large items like a free roadside down-filled sofa worth $500 into the small Subaru, I finally found one online, though the dealership was about ninety miles away in Brattleboro, VT. It was a 1999 with only 84,000 miles, and it even had a CD player! They wanted $5,000 and settled for $4,500. The closest I came to that was several 1999s and 2000s with about 120,000 miles in the $3,000-$4,000 range, so the price seemed pretty good. We were also rafting the Upper Delaware River and bringing my daughter to Longwood Gardens in PA for a year long paid internship all in a five day period, so time was short. Route 9 through the Green Mountains of Vermont is spectacular, and although we couldn’t peruse a great looking bookstore in Wilmington, we did take a lemonade moment to look down from the bridge at a couple of large trout patrolling crystal clear waters, one on each side, unless it was a single example just messing with our heads, though I would be the last to ascribe certain human qualities to beasts, be they rough or smooth. I had the assurance of Mark’s Motors that this van was in great shape, that it would pass a routine day-of-sale internal inspection with no problems, and that the entire transaction would only take twenty minutes. Needless to say, it didn’t go down quite that way. Their small service department found it needed rear brakes and a new tire (no extra charge), and there were other inefficiencies. We killed time by having a wonderful marina lunch under bright blue skies, and then fully exploring progressive downtown Brattleboro (funniest sight: a children’s store T-shirt with the image of Bush and the caption “President Poopy Head”). From the low parking space we found, I looked upward toward the fringing mountains and saw a large yellow banner way up on the back of a building that read, “75,000 Used Books,” so bingo off we went scaling the sidewalk heights of lower Brattleboro off on our own quests. 
A few twists and turns later I entered Brattleboro Books, which I now know to be the largest used bookstore in southern Vermont. I spent a half hour poking around, and would have needed another to look for the modest topics and authors I collect in such stores (turn-of-the-century journalism, Harry A. Franck upgrades, etc.); or those that I can easily resell locally if the price is right (Catskill Mountain railroad lines, etc.). It has just the right combination of jumble, organization, coziness, and what appears to be new arrivals in boxes. Serendipity too. Down in the basement, a big red copy of Marlboro Music Programs 1951-1984 caught my eye, and a perfectly pressed Monarch butterfly was laid inside. The highlight of the visit was a chat with co-proprietor Ellen Tenney. We shared some booksellerish sentiments and she allowed me to take a few pictures. I told her about my green Voyager and she pointed to hers parked right outside. I would link to a very nice article on the Tenneys that appeared in the 1/1/2007 Vermont Business Magazine, but it pulsates with too much garish advertising, so google it if you want. I see Rachel Ray slurping a Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee in one of those ads, by the way. She got her start in my area with little food spots on the local news, and Ellen mentioned that the now famous Rachel Ray did a piece from Brattleboro Books for her show. I apologized for not buying anything, though I did pick up a small photography book on Vermont dogs in one of the other three local bookstores Brattleboro strongly supports. I’d like to say the Plymouth Grand Voyager saga ended well, but I don’t know yet. We had lots to do at home before the close of the business day, so I made the unorthodox arrangement of making the return trip the actual test drive. Some things don’t feel quite right, like the brakes, the two back seats shake more than they should (though they will rarely be in anyway), and I’m hoping the smell I detect is only Armor All and not cigarettes. I usually buy new, to avoid cooties and and the time and expense of constant repairs. The CARFAX report they coughed up shows this started off as a rental in Michigan, and I am the fourth owner, which is not the uncheckered past I envisioned when chatting with the sales rep on the phone. It looks great (nearly new) for its age though, the CD player is sweet, and it’s so nice to see the temperature gauge right in the middle where it belongs. (When A. J.’s SUV caught on fire in the recent series finale of The Sopranos I had a bad flashback, and I don’t think a Filet-O-Fish will ever taste the same again either, though that might be a good thing.) Next week’s inspection will reveal more, though I wouldn’t mind investing another grand or three sooner or later if that what it takes to Voyager again. It isn’t so much about the make and model, however, as the vast cargo space . . . its five year mission: to explore strange new lands, to seek out new books and new antiques, to boldly go where no van of mine has gone before. I plan to run it into the ground doing my thing and trade it in for a new one some day if my thing goes well. Maybe there will be a good hybrid van by then. Images of Brattleboro BooksBrattleboro Books, Brattleboro, VT (brattleborobooks@verizon.net)
Book Store Labels: Peabody Book Shop, Baltimore, MDFound on the extreme lower right inside cover of The O’Donoghue; A Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago by Charles Lever (Dublin: William Curry, Jun. and Company, 1845).SolicitationsThe Standard can always use interesting, well-written articles on subjects of interest to the bookselling trade. Please query first, however, to editor@ioba.org. You will be supplied with submission guidelines, but to summarize, the material should be original, it is subject to editing, you retain copyright, and of course there is no payment other than most everyone’s satisfaction. You do not need to be a member of IOBA, except for the IOBA Bookseller Profiles section, though we would surely like you to join. We are very interested in the book trade outside the U.S. as well.Currently we are seeking short pieces for the following self-explanatory columns. House Calls; Garage/Estate/Library Sale Tales; Auction Action; Book Show Impressions; Book Store Lore; and Library File. BookuBlue Rum by Ernest Souza, down and out expatriate in Portugal, deep blue boards,top edges dark blue, “blue tobacco smoke,” “hideous blue jardinieres,” “blue as blue glass,” blue rum running and “Blue Sleep” addicts, hazy azul oscuro permeates, 1930 blue. 
Comic BooksFrom the comic section of the New York Journal American dated 4/8/1945, the third panel of “Bringing Up Father” by Geo. McManus.IOBA Standard, Summer Edition 2007, Volume 8, No. 3. |
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