Titles, Inc.

The Smell of Leather - No, Not a Car

I felt a surge of excitement thrill through me. 

I had been invited to this beautiful house to buy books, and as I stepped into the living room, there they were - shelves and shelves of gorgeous leather books.  I don't exactly have a leather fetish, but a shelf of morocco bounds can do to me what a closet of leather shoes can do to a woman of that persuasion.  Mine, I believe, is a more rational obsession.  One can read leather books - they have an intellectual component.  Shoes, well, they may enthrall the owner, but they pinch.

The owner of these books made it clear that while he was moving and needed just some downsizing, he had his favorites, and a marvelous glass cabinet that wanted books to complete its look.  He planned to have shelves in the new condo, and needed the feeling of being surrounded by books even in a smaller room.  I saw no problem.  There was enough for both of us.

A careful appraisal showed me that while many of these beauties had literary merit, many also were what we may call "just another pretty face."  But, hey, don't we know people who are more comfortable with that than anything more challenging.  Unfortunately some sets were incomplete.  Someone had actually read a volume here and there, and may have carried it away instead of re-inserting it in its proper numerical slot. 

Some book dealers call these "furniture books," dismissively.  They are just shelf-fillers, they say scornfully.  I argue, how about the cups and saucers, or decorative dishes that are on bookshelves.  They are not being used for a cup of tea and crumpets.  If you want to decorate, I think a book on a bookshelf is far more appropriate, even more appealing.

Yes, I get customers who come in with a tape measure, and a color scheme in mind, and I'm happy to help them.  Let them experience the warm, glowing feeling of leather books.

And, besides, they are just taking care of the books temporarily.  The books will move again to another shelf in another home eventually.  Maybe sometime, somewhere, someone will even read them.

-- Florence

No Books, but Nice Visit

If only every house call resulted in buying books.  I get my inventory from you, dear public.  The phone rings, and the voice says, "I have this old book."  Bad beginning.  I visualize covers held on by rubber bands, leather peeling away on spine, pages loose.  And I am right because that's what it usually is. 

It's easier to explain when they come in with the wretched book, and they say, indignantly, "What do you expect - it's a hundred years old!"  And I pluck a book circa 1707 from my shelf, and say, pleasantly, "It should look like new, like this 300 year old book".  After much discussion, they are persuaded to donate their book to the library, where it will immediately be trashed, while they have a donation receipt, and the warm feeling of generosity. 

But I'm often intrigued enough to go out to a house when I'm told the walls are lined with bookcases.  There has to be one good book, right?   I've come away too often with nary a one. 

"What do you buy,"  I am asked.  Darned if I can explain it.  I know it when I see it.  You know, first editions in DJs (learn it - dust jackets) by authors who have made a mark, and books that have become Hot Spots.  And just anything wonderful.  Call me, we'll talk.

Anyway, not buying books is not always a disappointment.  People with books in their homes are usually nice people.  We chat.  Most often they are going to move, so Where To and Why  becomes an animated discussion. 

Or somebody died, and a biography of the deceased can be fascinating.  You get insights into family dynamics: he's lazy and selfish and I have to do everything, but he'll want a share of the money.  Or: we never saw her all year long, and here she is helping us pack up, and her pack is bigger than ours.  Actually I never heard: she's a sweetheart and will do any job we put her to.

So I go out, hopefully, each time, but come back too often with only a headful of neighborhood gossip.

It beats buying the tabloid at the check-out.

-- Florence

Coincidences + Peter Pan + Chicago PO

I was offered a copy of Peter and Wendy, first American edition, Scribner's 1911.  It was offered via e-mail to me, in a Chicago suburb, from someone in the school system in Montclair, NJ.  Before buying the book, I asked my daughter and son-in-law who used to live there with their family  whether they had made the referral.

No, their children were not at the High School level when they lived there, and they didn't know the man. But my daughter asked her friend who bought their house whether she had mentioned me.  No, but she knew the family because the son was in one of the classes she teaches.  So here we are, all touching each other's lives, but the principle participants are the only ones not connected. 

I bought the book - a beautiful copy, and sent the check out immediately.  Here's where the PO enters the story.  My check didn't arrive in due time.  He sent a polite e-mail indicating the absence of the check.  At this point, I thought it necessary to give my credentials with my connections to Montclair, to assure him that, indeed, the check was in the mail. 

After eight days of non delivery, I sent off a second check, and told him to tear up whichever check came in second.  Ten days later he got the first check.  When the second came, he tore it up and wrote, "Alls well that ends well."

Not really.  The PO caused me embarrassment, and caused him anxiety.    

Now I read in my Brooklyn College Alumni Magazine that Gloria E. Tyson, '73 has been appointed postmaster for the city of Chicago..."infamous for having the worst mail delivery in the United States".

I could have told them that. 

What I hate most is you don't know when to send out that Happy Birthday card.

-- Florence

Warning! Beware! Book Sale ahead!

The link to the Philadelphia Inquirer leads to the funniest description I've ever read of a Book Fair. 

When I first started in the book business I, too, attended fund-raising tent sales.  I brought along a bright yellow nylon windbreaker to throw over the books in my cart while I thoughtfully perused the tables.  Towards the end of the sale, I walked to my cart with a few more additions - and found an empty cart with a forlorn yellow windbreaker guarding absolutely nothing.  Did I rage like the man described in the following article?  No, I was much more restrained.  I stood there.  And cried.   

<http://www.philly.com/inquirer/opinion/pa/20070727_A_book_sale_-_red_in_tooth_and_claw.html>

-- Florence

Oh, Phooey!

When I sent an e-mail to a young woman telling her the book she wanted to buy had already been sold, she responded with, "Well, phooey."

I was astonished and delighted to hear that word from my past.  It was commonplace in Brooklyn back in "those days", so I asked where she was from, thinking if not Brooklyn, then New Jersey.

She grew up on a farm outside of Zenia, Ohio! 

Reminiscing,  Susan writes, "One thing I do remember from childhood is that we used it in my family as a comment of frustration at the way something was going or the way something had turned out. But we also used "Well, phooey on you!" as a mild, slightly terse, but not terribly angry - more dismissive - comment; a combination of disappointment, displeasure, mini-hex when someone had not lived up to expectations."

She also found it in a huge discussion of word borrowings from the German:  "Phooey! is a term of disparagement, disappointment, disgust.  It is from the German/Yiddish pfui which means bad smell, and may have also given 'p.u.', a children's expression to mean something stinks."

Yes, I remember as kids we would run around, holding our nose, pointing, and yelling P U at whatever it was that was stinky.  And then probably said Phooey when nobody paid any attention to us.

Susan says it appeared in the cartoon strip Peanuts.  Now I'm thinking I saw it even earlier, but can't place it.  Popeye?  She also saw a children's book called Phooey! by Mark Rosenthal.  And found tee shirts selling on the Internet printed with Phooey!  My favorite is the maternity tee, and second to that is the diaper. 

I'm treating this as if it has sociological importance, when really it's the nostalgia factor that excites me.

Susan writes, "it's a great word.  Perhaps you and I can start a revival !"

-- Florence

 

A Moveable Feast

Another marvelous dinner at another friend's house.  I think I will have new standards for making friends.  Never mind scintillating conversationalist, entertaining storyteller, gossip-monger, political strategist.  It will be:  Do you love to cook?  Are you great at it?

I hate to cook.  You spend hours scraping, peeling, chopping, working your fingers to the bone, and everyone sits down, eats it all up, and what are you left with?  Nothing but dirty dishes.  I never understood it.  Kids now up and out of the house - my kitchen is closed.

Last night: hors d'oeuvres out on the high patio with its twisted iron railing.  Glorious weather.  Then everybody inside for dinner.  After dinner there was no removing dirty dishes.  No, we removed ourselves, again, for dessert in another charming room, a glassed in porch overlooking a splendid free-form pool. 

Take that, Hemingway.  That's what I call A Moveable Feast. 

Conversation?  The most fun was telling our encounters with the police.  Of course we were all innocent.  Yeah? Tell it to the judge.  Well, we did. 

We learned about a legal technicality that is startling if true.  One guest said he got a $90 ticket in the mail for going through a red light.  He had been caught on one of those spy cameras, and the photo of his car with license plate was sent with the ticket.  "Can you see yourself in the picture"? asked a non-lawyer.  "Well, not me, but my car".  Aha!  It seems you can't give a car a ticket, only the driver.  So you can go to court and say my nephew's friend borrowed the car, I don't know anything about a red light.  We were skeptical.  The guest, in a fit of virtue, said he'd pay the ticket, anyway.

So, readers, is that a legitimate loophole?

Of course this is book related.  I mentioned Hemingway, didn't I?

--Florence

Opening Closed Pages

In older books one sometimes finds pages that are still closed.  You want to read the print inside those joined pages.  Caution!  Don't damage the book by doing it incorrectly.  Do not slip your finger inside to rip it apart.  That will leave you with two ragged pages.  Do not use a sharp instrument like a knife to slice it open.  The knife often slips off the fold and cuts a V until it finds its way back to the fold.  One sheet will have a piece missing, and the opposite sheet will have a dangling particle. 

Now the correct way:  Use an index card.  Or a business card.  Slide it between the pages at an angle and start sawing.  Voila! Or if you prefer, Eueka!  A clean cut, very slightly deckled. 

Just be sure the pages are meant to be separated.  Peak inside to make sure there is print hidden in there.  If instead, it is white, it is not meant to be cut.  That is the style of that book.

There are as many people who say don't do it to a collectible book - leave it in its original state, as there are people who say go ahead and open it.  Just read that collectible book carefully. 

When I was interviewed on radio, the host asked, "What is the first thing I should do when I get a collectible book"?   I said, "Wash your hands."

-- Florence      

PS  Read John Chamberlin's response to Killer Books.  A good put-down comment.  I admit to backing off and agreeing with him.  F

 

Killer Book

Let's leave The French Lieutenant's Woman by John Fowles for another of his books, probably his most valuable for the collector.  It is called, ironically, The Collector.  The story very very simply is about a socially inept person (well, that's rather kind - he was nuts) who collected butterflies.  He also "collected" a very beautiful lady hoping she might fall in love with him, and kept her imprisoned in his cellar.  She dies.

According to the information gleaned from Wikipedia, The Collector inflamed two people at two different times to become serial killers.  After his capture, it was noted that one killer had practically memorized the book.  The other killer had it in his possession. 

I hate that!  I'd rather blame sociopathic murders on the influence of violent movies, violent TV, violent computer gams.  Not on the gentle art of reading. 

-- Florence

Sunny Sunday

I am finally reading The French Lieutenant's Woman by John Fowles.  It was in the Give-away basket at the library.  Such a lovely concept - free books in this affluent neighborhood.  The library does have a section for selling used books, and I've never figured out how they decide which books to toss in the freebie basket.  Some of my best friends - are in the basket. 

The Fowles book is engrossing.  He, strangely, interrupts his narrative to explain how Victorian this attitude is, and how the devlopment of the character is taking a direction of its own.  It's disruptive, but it's a deliberate device.  I think the end will be no surprise. 

Attended a lovely dinner party.  What delicious food, yum.  A well-used fat cook book on the counter.  I had no curiosity to see which cook book it was.  I'd rather eat, than cook, so her secrets were safe with me.  Thanks, Cathy, for the lovely dinner, and great company.  We talked about religion, politics, global warming, and how wonderful the meal was. 

-- Florence

An author's interesting comment

My discussion of book jackets brought this inside insight into publishing.  Shelly Reuben writes mysteries focusing on fires.  She's a Private Investigator on arson cases.

Hi, Florence: This piece reminds me of an interesting problem that arose after JULIAN SOLO was published. It became a collectable rather quickly, but buyers of limited editions were initially put off because the price on the flap of the book jacket had been cut off. I explained that Dodd, Mead & Company (the publisher) had been in financial difficulties when JULIAN SOLO was published, and they cut off the prices on every single copy of the book so that they could raise the price and try to make more money. Alas. That didn't save Dodd, Mead, although it certainly didn't hurt my book, because JULIAN SOLO went on to get an Edgar nomination from the Mystery Writers of American. I don't remember if I ever told you that story. Hopefully, it won't put you and your readers to sleep! Love from your friend and fan, Shelly Reuben

-- Florence