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
Comments