A Passion for Books

by Harold Rabinowitz

  The great contemporaries of Aldus combined at his death to do him honor. Musurus, Reuchlin, and Erasmus declared that he had accomplished more for the spread of learning and for the development of literature than all the scholars of his period. His fellow printers acknowledged without question his supremacy as a master artist-printer. No one can again contribute so much to the external and internal advancement of the Book because that much is not now left undone. Even as a pioneer, he established so high a standard that no one has surpassed his work, even with the aid of modern mechanical improvements—and it is a question whether any printer has yet equaled the quality and taste shown in the Aldine masterpieces.

  Raphael Regio, professor of the humanities in Venice at the time, delivered the funeral oration over the body of Aldus lying in state in the old Church of S. Paternian. The casket rested on a catafalque banked high with choice editions of the volumes he had created. These tangible evidences of the devotion of a lifetime form the ever-living monument to the continuing benefaction of his greatness.

  Benjamin Franklin’s Epitaph

  In 1729, drawing on similar epitaphs written by others, the young printer Benjamin Franklin composed this epitaph for himself. Franklin did not, however, instruct that it be used on his grave, which actually bears only his name and that of his wife.

  The Body of

  Benjamin Franklin, Printer

  (Like the cover of an old book,

  Its contents torn out,

  And stript of its lettering and gilding,)

  Lies food for worms:

  Yet the work itself shall not be lost,

  For it will (as he believed) appear once more

  In a new And more beautiful edition,

  Corrected and amended by

  The Author.

  The Collector

  BY WILLIAM TARG

  Bill Targ’s remarkable career in publishing included his heroic support of Mario Puzo in the writing and publishing of The Godfather. A man of wide interests and a lover of life, Targ’s 1975 memoir, Indecent Pleasures, is one of the great publishing memoirs. This is a chapter from that rollicking book.

  The Virus

  The book collector’s virus attacked me early in life. I was never to recover; in fact, the malady became aggravated with the years. It was in my eighteenth year, while working at Macmillan, that a friend introduced me to a Dickensian character who owned a coffee shop near our office on the South Side of Chicago. One day this man— some devilish instinct prompting him, no doubt—handed me a thick paper-bound catalog of rare books. I had never seen one before. He told me he collected Trollope, but there were other books in the catalog that might interest me. It was issued by Maggs Brothers of London, a quarto volume, expensively printed and lavishly illustrated. Some plates were in color.

  I spent many nights studying its contents (I didn’t buy anything from it, of course), but I resolved that I must have more of the catalogs which Maggs so invitingly offered in a list on the back cover. I wrote that firm and before long found myself a regular recipient of their catalogs. As each new one arrived, my sense of guilt increased. I felt like a con man, for I could not afford to buy any of the books they offered. But I did read the catalogs and came to learn something of old books and bibliography and a great many other related things.

  Like some small nimble mouse between the ribs

  Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there.

  I suppose I became insufferable because of the odd smattering of knowledge I was acquiring. I became, overnight, an “expert” on Elizabethan literature, color-plate books, rare medical and scientific works, books on exploration, history, and such. I became a repository of information relating to incunabula and early printing. Points and variant bindings became my daily diet. At eighteen I was talking glibly about Dickens in “parts” and Scott in “boards,” about trial issues and the 1865 Alice. The vocabulary of the bookbinder became mine, and I rolled on my tongue such phrases as “silk doublures” and “gilt dentelles.” The Maggs catalogs became, over the years, my university. And of course, I scrounged catalogs from other dealers in Europe and at home. Ultimately, I began to order books from them. Packages with foreign stamps began to arrive, and is there any excitement to compare with the opening of a fresh parcel of books? It was inevitable as funds became available that my library began to expand, from cheap subscription sets and twenty-five- and fifty-cent bin books, until it boasted of press books, modern first editions, Beadle Dime Novels, fine bindings, small runs of books by such then favorites as G. K. Chesterton, Lafcadio Hearn, James G. Huneker, Theodore Dreiser, and others, plus a number of books about books (one of the first I read was Pearson’s Books in Black or Red ). Gradually, the subscription sets and bin books were eased out of the house. I was a collector. I was always broke!

  And of course my collection of book catalogs grew, and I have never ceased regarding them with special affection. Eugene Field termed it “The Malady Called Catalogitis.” I can only add for emphasis that catalogs, and books about books, are the backbone of any good collector’s library. They are the fuel that keep the bibliophilic temperature at boiling point, or near it.

  As a footnote to my Maggs Brothers catalog experience, thirty years after getting my first one, I made my first trip to London. I proceeded at once to Maggs Brothers, 50 Berkeley Square. I won’t attempt to relate the sense of exhilaration and aroused sentiment that was generated within me as I entered the doors of this establishment. My wife stood at the foot of the stairs leading to their door and aimed her camera at me. The snapshot, with the Maggs plaque behind me, is one of the precious mementos of my first European trip.

  I visited many other London bookshops—shops whose names were as old friends to me through numerous catalogs I had received over the years. And I bought books from many of them, none of which failed to give me satisfaction.

  A book collector has friends everywhere. The bookseller from whom you buy books is, more frequently than not, your friend. There is a bond between you that transcends the commercial transaction. For you’ve established something (call it rapport) between you that is personal, almost spiritual if you will. He understands your interests and your needs and the compulsion which brings you to him. (And let it be freely admitted, his magnet is as compelling to the bibliophile as the bar is to the boozer.) The bookseller becomes inextricably identified with you, your library, your intellectual life.

  First Principles: Collect What You Like

  Collecting the great names, the milestones of literature, is child’s play; all it takes is a checkbook and some indoctrination. But collecting a young, fledgling author—that’s the game!

  Did you ever hear of, or read any of, the poems of Patti Smith?

  Well, one day, while browsing at Gotham Book Mart, I picked up a copy of a pamphlet entitled Seventh Heaven. I was attracted by the photograph of its author, a young woman who looked as though she had just come in out of the rain, or just back from a swim. I began to read the poems in her little book, which was published by Telegraph Books in 1972, and was instantly taken by them. One of the two people the book is dedicated to is Mickey Spillane, one of my favorite authors. So I bought it.

  Later, I acquired other works by Patti Smith, pamphlets called Witt and Kodak and a four-page thing entitled One of Us Is the Stronger—Early Morning Dream. She also published, in holograph reproduction, Devotions to Arthur Rimbaud, a broadside which ends up with the words “He was so damn young.” Someone described her voice and delivery as a “quivering quickness, like the quail that lights down so fast you almost miss.”

  Gotham had a party for Patti and I went, bringing along my various Patti Smith artifacts. I met her, I found her enchanting. Shy. Self-effacing. Embarrassed by all the attention. She inscribed each of my books and the Rimbaud broadside. I let her borrow my Parker fountain pen, which, I told her, Samuel Beckett had used to inscribe my Waiting for Godot. She genuflected and kissed the pen.

  Patti Smith appeared at Max’s
Kansas City and elsewhere, but I missed her “act.” I want to continue reading her poetry and shall buy each booklet as it appears. Someday I will be able to say I recognized her talent way back—that’s collecting. If she doesn’t become famous, no harm. I empathize with her and her poems. I hope you make the discovery one day.

  One day, in a long coffee-shop visit with Patti, I learned of her deep interest in flying saucers; of her ability to see and sense the proper placing of a word beside its destined mate; that she once listened to a half-hour discourse by a tortoise—all of which I earnestly believe. She understands, too, a great deal about the sexuality of extraterrestrials and other arcane matters. She will surely write (based on a deep regard for William Burroughs’s writings) a major novel, and I hope to serve as her editor.

  Closeup of a Collector

  Carl Sandburg, in his Lincoln Collector, has much to say about collecting, and in particular, about that prototype of the great collector, Oliver R. Barrett.

  Sandburg tells this anecdote about Charles Gunther, the candy manufacturer–collector, and Barrett—an anecdote which offers a classic portrait-in-miniature of the true collector:

  In another session, when Barrett saw a manuscript in the handwriting of Robert Burns—the verses of “Auld Lang Syne”—he said, “I want this ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ ” Gunther replied, “I know how you feel, I went over to England and I got it and I had to pay a lot of money.”

  Barrett: “I want it now. You know how it feels to have it, and I don’t know how it feels.”

  Gunther: “I will sell you this ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and you write out the receipt and put in the receipt that any time I want it, I can buy it back at the same price.”

  Barrett took it home. A week later Gunther was on the phone, saying: “Bring back the ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ You know, I haven’t been able to sleep. I hear the waves of Lake Michigan pounding at night and I think about it. I walk down Michigan Avenue thinking about it, and now it is gone and I am not going to last many years. Let me have it back.”

  The World’s Greatest Book Collector

  When I was visiting with Ben Glazebrook of Constable in 1966, he mentioned an upcoming book that pulled me up short. It was a one-volume condensation of the five-volume work on Sir Thomas Phillipps (The Phillipps Studies ) adapted by Nicolas Barker.

  The prospect of publishing, for Putnam’s, the story of the unparalleled account of the most fanatically dedicated book collector in all history was a great prospect. I was delighted to learn, on reporting the project to Walter Minton, that he was all for publishing the book, although he held out little hope for sales or profit. (The virus had reached him!)

  Phillipps was the ultimate bibliomaniac. He said somewhere that he wanted to own one copy of every book printed. He was the illegitimate son of a rich Birmingham merchant and was never allowed to see his mother. Lawrence Clark Powell conjectures that this was the cause for his bibliomania—an unfulfilled need for affection. Whatever the reason, he was insatiable. He filled two large mansions with books and priceless manuscripts. No one knows how many printed books he finally did get to own. He begrudged his wife the space occupied by her dressing table—because it could have accommodated another bookcase. I believe, in the end, he had more than 60,000 manuscripts which be cataloged. In today’s terms, his library could be valued at perhaps a hundred million dollars, possibly more. He often neglected to pay his bills and sent some booksellers into bankruptcy (or to the madhouse).

  Bookseller, librarian, publisher, collector—all will respond to this fantastic story. The man was detestable, personally. But so admirable in his genius for collecting. If you can find a copy of this now out-of-print book, treat yourself to something recherché.

  I believe I have some of Phillipps’s genes in my makeup; alas, what is lacking is his income. He was damnably rich.

  Book Collecting for the Smart Money; or, What the Disillusioned and Bewildered Stock Market Speculator Can Turn to for Solace, Culture, and Some Profit

  A publisher I know told me, in utmost seriousness, that anyone who couldn’t take a complete break from his daily interests was suffering from soggy brains.

  I disagree. Editors and publishers do read manuscripts after hours; they also see authors and fellow publishers socially, at home. Somehow, I think they should have decent libraries, aside from the usual reference miscellany, the haphazard stuff assembled over the years. I mean they should have a collection, put together with plan and purpose, a cohesive collection.

  The investment factor is also there, and that is, in part, why the following article was written. It first appeared in New York magazine (November 11, 1974) in somewhat modified form, when the subject of inflation and investment was on everyone’s mind; when a president was up for impeachment and a secretary of state was double-talking and making protests over accusations such as wiretapping and other indelicate behavior; when it appeared that only gold had an intrinsic value and bread was going to cost a dollar a loaf. It was a time of fear and depression—talk, and stocks were unpopular and going to hell. The article was also intended to indicate what was going on in the rare-book world, and I wrote it with the hope that it would suggest as well a perfect escape hatch for the troubled, escape from the routines and pressures of work and the rigors of social life.

  As a rare-book watcher for over three decades, as well as a sometime collector, I’ve come to a few drastic conclusions. One, that the possession of a rare book beats owning a deflated stock certificate. Also, that there’s no contest when the choice is between curling up with a good book or a Wall Street engraving. However . . .

  If you’re going to take to books with the single crass purpose of making money, then please turn to another page. The prospect of lending voice to the sole practice of making money out of bibliophily gives me the horrors. This is not my intention here.

  What I want to enunciate here are a few not-too-well-known facts about rare books and collecting. First, rare book prices are skyrocketing in America, England, and France; literary “stocks” (which include autographs and manuscripts) have gone inflationary, and the climb appears to continue steadily Everestward.

  First editions are in among many hundreds of college and university libraries where collections of rare books are being avidly assembled. Scholars use them! The emphasis appears to be on contemporary literature as well as the milestones of the past. The great rarities will soon be out of circulation because of institutional buying. (Where does one find a first-issue copy of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass or Rimbaud’s first little book, Une Saison en Enfer, which he published at his own expense—as did Whitman? Or Camus’s first book, L’Envers et l’endroit, printed in Algiers in 1937?)

  It’s plain to see that it’s folly to sell one’s books in haste.

  A home library of, say, 1,000 good first editions could represent a pretty impressive estate or nest egg for any modest family. And what glorious reading!

  “How do you know it’s a genuine first edition?” That’s the most common question asked by book owners. There is no simple answer; there are many rules and guidelines, and also many variations and contradictions, and publishers do not have a uniform style for indicating first editions, alas. Some trade publishers will indicate “First Edition” or “First Impression” on the copyright page. But not always. Some publishers put reprint information on the copyright page, which quickly answers the question as to whether it is a first edition. Some publishers put the publication date on the title page, then remove it in reprintings. In short, bibliographies must be consulted, as well as booksellers. Instinct and rule of thumb are called into play. In the end, your memory and rule-of-thumb sense will guide you. A bookseller will of course guarantee any book he sells to you.

  If you have a wall or shelf of books at home, take down and examine those by famous authors such as Steinbeck, Hemingway, Tennessee Williams, and others—books you bought when the books were first published. The chances are that some of them are first editions—that is, i
f you bought them around the time of publication. The books which seem to you to be first editions should then be checked out through rare booksellers’ catalogs, bibliographies, guides, and auction records. Use the public library as much as possible. Catalogs are valuable guides.

  Don’t expect your bookseller to be on tap for endless questions; to earn his attention and service you must first prove yourself a customer and a reasonably serious collector. If you simply badger him with questions and fail to buy, you’ll alienate him quickly. Courtesy and good business manners must prevail. Remember, the bookseller has rent to pay and an overhead. Don’t bring in boxes and bundles of books for appraisal; if you want to sell them, ask for an offer. If you think you can get free appraisals, guess again. No professional dealer will hold still for that. Many dealers charge a fee for appraisals and properly so; what they have to offer is a lifetime of experience and study.

  What is a rare book and what is it worth? How high is up? The first question is easily answered: A book is rare when the supply is short and the demand long. Its value is what one is willing to pay for it in a competitive market. Often, a rare book is rare by virtue of its limited first printing. If one hundred copies were printed and most of them landed in institutional collections, the chances are the price will be prohibitive.