Titles, Inc.

Visiting Authors

We were discussing the selection of books the young woman brought to the desk. They were related to her current writing project, a book about Bennett Cerf as publisher of The Modern Library, Boni and Liveright, and Random house. She liked, especially, a slim book by a forgotten poet that she had pulled from the shelf. “Who would want this book as much as I do?” It was delightfully inscribed in the tiny handwriting of Bennett Cerf himself. She expects it will still take about 2 ½ years until her book is published. File the author’s name, Gayle Feldman, in mind. Time goes quickly.

Gayle was visiting from New York. I asked what she was doing in the neighborhood . “I’m a guest at Ragdale.” “Ragdale in Lake Forest? The writer and artist colony? How wonderful.” and she gestured to her redheaded friend engrossed in looking at books. “Audrey brought me here.” She introduced me to her friend, THE Audrey Niffenegger, author of the modern classic The Time Traveler’s Wife. This is where you, dear reader, are supposed to say REALLY ???

It is a great book, engrossing and demanding a lot of attention. As the title indicates, the hero is thrust back and forth through time and meets the same people at different stages of life. It is not science-fiction. These are normal people and there is no space ship involved. Hmmm, I don’t do book reviews well. The book, when it came out in 2003, got accolades from all reviewers.

It is also the absolute favorite book of my granddaughter, Celeste, who is visiting from out-of-state, and was in the store that moment. When Celeste heard the name, she turned to stone. I told Audrey we both loved her book. We chatted.

The newspapers have told us it is being made into a movie, maybe a December release. I asked Audrey whether she was a consultant on the movie, and she crossed her two fingers into the shape of a cross that you use to ward off the vampire. No, no, she had nothing to do with it. Her terror I’m sure is shared by all authors whose books are translated into movies. She did add, graciously, that she heard it will be wonderful and with a great cast. We can only hope.

Then Celeste, in a tiny voice said, “My mother will kill me if I tell her I was too shy to ask for a picture with you, so I have to ask?” Audrey said, “Of course.” Celeste shoved the camera at me and beaming, stood next to Audrey Niffengger who embraced her while I pushed the button.

It warms the cockles of my heart (don’t tell me you never heard that one) when my grandkid’s hero is an author rather than a rock star.

-- Florence

The Swedish Connection

A woman came to my shop today.  She's visiting from Sweden.  She reads my blog in Sweden and wanted to see the shop I talk about in my blog.  Isn't that thrilling? 

Disclosure demands that I tell you that Tina is the sister of my husband's brother's wife.  Or, simply, my sister-in-law's sister.  With husband Bo (pronounced Boo).  Bo is on a continental trip to explain his invention that will .... I understood it as he told me, something agricultural, so remarkable that I couldn't hang on to it.  It involved very big numbers.  When it's patented and goes public, I will get back to you.  We plunge!

We went to a local restaurant called Phoenician that serves Lebanese coffee.  The owner - chef greets us at the door and asks whether we have a reservation.  We look around the near empty restaurant, and answer No.  He looks regretful then seats us anyway.  We settle in, and he comes back to recite the daily specials.  It's theatrics.  Lamb with this and that spice and condiment along with vegetables prepared this and that way, and without stopping to catch his breath he moves on to the fish which is served whole with head and tail unless you want otherwise....  After his very detailed and expansive recital you feel obliged to order his recommendations.  It was very good.  Not as spectacular as the verbal presentation.

Such an entertaining visit.  Such a compatible exchange of ideas.  Such vigor and energy. Of course we love them because we all share the same values.  We met them many years ago in Sweden at a wedding.  We were all seated outdoors on a drear misty day.  Then the music turned to the wedding march, the drizzle stopped, the sun burst through, lighting up the bride who appeared on the green grass, coming to greet the groom.  It was really a magical moment. 

The rest of that weekend had been like a Swedish movie.  We stayed at their country home, and I remember hammocks, and lawn, and a sandy beach, and finding shells in the water. 

The visit to my shop was a brief and delightful reunion.

---Florence

Impossible Requests

The man walked in purposefully, his wife trailing.  He went directly to the "good fiction" wall, (the more expensive, signed copies), and stayed focused.  His wife sat down. Then she got up and walked up to my desk.  She said, "I am thinking of getting a book as a going away present for a friend who is leaving for Africa with a group from her church to teach English to French speaking children.  She's looking forward to the trip because she volunteers at a zoo, and is excited about seeing animals in the wild. I am willing to spend up to $20."  She looks at me hopefully.  "Can you think of a book I can give her?"

I suppress a guffaw, and say sadly, "I can't imagine what that might be.  Sorry."

She drifted around. looking at the books I keep loosely on the tables.  Those books either have pretty front covers, or have contents not easily matching the shelved categories, or they are whimsical.  Or for no other reason than I thought they should be displayed. 

I turn to my computer to continue with my work. 

Shortly afterward she brings a book to my desk.  "This is everything I wanted."  And she puts down a slim lovely book, Prayers for  African Creatures.  It has spiritual poetry with delicate illustrations of animals, the captions under each illustration in French, text in English at a juvenile level.  It is $18.

She takes for granted she would have found such a book here.  I was astonished.  I still am. 

Oh, her husband did not get anything.

---Florence

Love those British!

A visiting book dealer from London phoned on Saturday.  He was in Chicago and would the store be open Monday?  A fair question because traditionally antiquarian bookstores take Monday off.  "Yes, yes."  And when did I open?  "10:30," I told him.  "Oh," he said, "I'm leaving for London Monday afternoon and was hoping to get to you at 9:00." "Absolutely," I assured him, "I will be open at 9:00."

We both reached the door at the same moment and I graciously ushered him in.  He introduced me to the other young man from his shop.  "I was here five years ago with my father,"  he said.  "I remember," I said.  Yes, indeed, I remembered.  That's why I tumbled out of bed at the crack of dawn (for me) to open the shop.  "And how is your father?" I asked.  "He died, almost five years ago."  "Oh," I commiserated.

They moved directly to the glass case which I hurriedly unlocked.  Out came the first editions of Dickens, Bleak House and Little Dorrit.  And, oh no, my first edition The Christmas Carol which I loved owning because it is cherished and scarce.  They took the very limited editions of beautiful British private press books with the vellum bindings and fine printing. They took the rare book on the beginnings of golf in Scotland. Then the other young man shouted.

"I can't believe it!  I've been looking for this forever!  I was beginning to think it didn't exist!"  He triumphantly holds up a flimsy pamphlet, Cantos of Ezra Pound.  I knew it was special, but I didn't know it could make a heart pound.  Of course it was pricey, after all it was protected in the locked glass case.  I don't like to mention a number because obviously he valued it more that I did, and I don't know how much it will cost to buy it from him. 

Finished with the case, they both circled the shelves removing first editions by acclaimed British authors.  I kept writing them onto the sales slips.  All done.  I tallied it up with a dealer's 20% discount, he whipped out his check book, told me to ship it FedEx charging it to his number, and they were gone.

And as they say, when the smoke cleared, I was sitting with a Cheshire grin on my face.  Any wonder I get a warm fuzzy feeling when I hear a British accent?

---Florence

Special Day

Out on the back deck in this lovely weather I noticed three of the five hanging potted plants were dead.  Still blooming were two geranium plants.  Dead was one from last summer that I had bought because the label said Perennial. It didn't even try to make it through a Chicago winter.  The other two were new plants I bought a few weeks ago with the geraniums.  They  had hanging clusters of tiny white flowers.  Apparently they wanted more water than the occasional rain, and the soaking they got when first I hung them up. 

Now I watered them all and the geraniums said," Oh, thank you, thank you, we do try."  The dead plants were brittle and crunchy.  As I soaked I could hear their death rattle, "No second chances."  The perennial with the rigid stems didn't open an eye either.  This required action.

Well, it was the afternoon of the 4th of July.  I had already sat on the curb in front of my shop watching our community parade led by our wonderful High School band - those that weren't in summer camp like my saxophonist granddaughter. Following behind were our local politicos, and other groups of different political persuasions, some in undecorated cars, some sauntering on foot.  There were trucks, and clusters of people promoting commercial interests. For entertainment the Jesse White Tumblers tumbled along (great!), another visiting band with an exuberant band leader under a huge black cloak (there would be no band clothes to fit his girth), and a band representing Brazil with hip swinging ladies followed by handsomely costumed men strutting while playing their music. 

So many of the parade patricipants tossed out candy.  The scrambling kids were prepared; they had plastic grocery bags that were filling up as though it were Halloween.

There was the VFW, and men attired in Civil War military uniforms who stopped and shot off their rifles, and then reloaded from hip pouches. One major disappointment.  Nobody rose from their curbside folding chairs to honor the flag as it went by.  Or to honor the prideful elderly veterans.

When the parade disbanded I went to Home Depot to replace the three dead plants. All the pots were on sale for $3.95.  I chose the hardiest looking of the left-overs and soaked them well.

I just checked the weather report.  Rain is expected in three days.  Oh Joy!

---Florence