Alumni tell me constantly their sense of loss and regret that after leaving college they don’t read anymore. If they had, while in college, developed the habit of building up a personal library, they wouldn’t feel this as acutely as many of them do. It is often pathetic to see the great number of men and women who appear to have no inner resources whatever, who are afraid to be alone, who play bridge hour after hour with an almost sinister desperation, and who pursue themselves in circles in a desperate effort to “kill” time. They make a lot of psychiatrists rich.
Fortunate indeed was the late Sir William Osler, and others like him, who early in life developed a love for reading that greatly enriched his life as long as he lived; made him, in fact, a better, more enlightened, more human physician.
Best-sellers, written often with Hollywood in mind, and ballyhooed by the bright advertising boys, the book societies, and the newspaper reviewers who discover masterpieces ten times a week, seldom have lasting merit. One exception was Charles Jackson’s honest study of an alcoholic, The Lost Weekend, 1944, which deserved all that was said about it, but even this fine novel sold only a fraction of the number of copies sold of Forever Amber, a trashy book that will be forgotten as soon as it is screened. The finest novel I read in 1945 was William Maxwell’s The Folded Leaf, and if it was a bestseller I’ll be surprised. Who now reads The Winning of Barbara Worth, Lavender and Old Lace, The Trail of the Lonesome Pine, The Girl of the Limberlost, or The Inside of the Cup ?
My friend George Matthew Adams of New York is a book collector of note, with a highly developed critical sense, and he is one who reads the books he collects. He feels something like this about them:
For many years [he writes] I have been a modest collector of first editions of books that have especially interested me. There was a time when I smiled at first-edition collectors. I do it no more. I crave their association. I learn something new from them all. I wrote to an old friend of mine and told her of my beautiful collection of first editions and asked her to come and see them. Her reply was: “I thought books were to be read.” Well, great books are to be read, and should be, but when they are great books, they are also to be loved.
Adams then goes on to say that Hilaire Belloc, a highly civilized writer, once said that after he had read a great book in its first edition, all other editions were spoiled for him.
I can understand [Adams writes]; a first edition, especially of a really good book, represents so much of the dreams, the struggles, and the anticipation of the author. Often it has meant his hunger in its creation. . . . George Gissing had to borrow money to get his first book, The Workers in the Dawn, into print, as no publisher would assume the risk. Stephen Crane had to do the same when he had his Maggie: A Girl of the Streets published. And so few people were interested that only a few hundred copies of each were ever sold. Today a first edition of either is costly, and Maggie once brought $3,700 at a sale. There is something of the soul of an author in the first edition of his books, and especially of his first book.
Curiously enough, the discriminating reader who buys first editions of books he wants to read often does make a very sound investment. Suppose, for instance, that a collector had bought Mary Webb’s books as they appeared, had kept them in the dust wrapper, and put them on his shelves. He would have made, had he chosen to sell them some decades later, several thousand percent on his investment. Robert Frost’s A Boy’s Will, 1913, now brings $100 for a first issue; it could have been bought for a few shillings in 1913. In 1855 when Whitman’s Leaves of Grass appeared no copies sold in Brooklyn or in New York. A fine copy today is worth $1,000, and in the early thirties I saw a copy at Rosenbach’s in Philadelphia for $4,000. Poe could scarcely give away Tamerlane, but the last auction price was $15,000 in the book market. I don’t know, or care, what Van Wyck Brooks’s The Flowering of New England, 1936, is worth mint today, but I paid $4 for my copy, which is still pristine in its rather unimaginative dust wrapper.
All of which leads me to the advice given by one of America’s premier booksellers, the late James F. Drake. His three “Don’ts on Book Collecting,” which still are sound advice, are:
Don’t buy a book unless you like it. (In other words, don’t buy a book just because someone says it is a book you ought to have.)
Don’t buy a book unless it is a first edition, and if there is a point of issue, the first issue.
Don’t buy a book unless it is in the best possible condition.
His son, Colonel Marston E. Drake, adds: Don’t buy a book just for an investment. Investment should be in negotiable securities so that proceeds can be immediately realized on them by calling a broker and telling him to sell them. If one will, however, buy the books he likes, observing the three don’ts, he is backing his judgment against the world’s—if people agree with him, more will want those books and they will be bound to go up in value; if they don’t agree with him, what difference does it make anyway? He has the books he likes.
I was once told that the values of the late A. E. Newton’s books held up better when the crash came in 1929 than did many of his securities. The fluctuation in price for a good copy of the Kilmarnock Burns, for instance, is very slight: it will always bring around $3,000, the price depending, of course, on its condition.
In a quarter of a century of collecting I have learned a few things that will almost certainly be of value to the beginner, and even, in some instances, to the experienced collector. These points follow:
In the first place, an “edition” may be defined as including all copies of a book printed from one setting of type. If the type is “reset,” then a second edition appears.
The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary defines “edition” as “the whole number of copies printed from the same set of types and issued at one time,” and it defines “first” as “that is before all others in time; earliest.”
A great English collector defined correctly, I think, what a first edition is. Viscount Esher: “The first edition of a book is its first appearance in print, wherever it may have been published.”
In spite of the literalness and exactness of the above definitions, most collectors, curiously enough, deviate considerably from them because of the “following the flag” theory.
This, in brief, means that if one collects an American author, he buys the American edition even though the book may have been published first in England or in Timbuktu; or if an English author, he buys the first English edition even though the book may have been first published in Carmel or in Hong Kong.
John Galsworthy’s The Forsyte Saga, 1922, was first published in the United States, but most collectors want the first English edition, which came out after the American one. Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn came out in England first, in December 1884, and the American edition came out somewhat later, postdated 1885, but collectors of Mark Twain buy the American edition and they pay a lot more for it. Perfectionists will probably want both editions. On the other hand, collectors pay $100 for a copy of the American Robert Frost’s A Boy’s Will, in the English edition, and the American edition of the same book can be bought for one tenth of this amount. “Consistency,” after all, as Emerson reminded us, “is the hobgoblin of little minds.”
Printings from the same type at different times are differentiated by calling each printing a “new impression” of the edition. The “first edition” naturally means the first impression of the edition, and this is the one collectors ought to have.
The word “issue” is often confusing to the beginner in collecting. Occasion sometimes arises, after a certain number of copies of a book have been sent out from the publisher’s warehouses, to alter the makeup or textual content for some error of fact, for a mistake in typesetting, or for some indiscretion of phrase or sentiment, or just because the censor has demanded the excision of a certain passage. The word “issue” is used to differentiate between the first group of the first edition and the second group (slightly altered in one way
or another) of the first edition. An “issue” may thus be defined as all copies of an edition that are put on the market at one time, if differentiated by some substituted, added, or subtracted matter from those copies of the same setting of the type that were put on the market at other times. Copies must actually have been “issued” before the word can be used.
Another example may be cited. Say a book has a first printing of one thousand copies. Five hundred of these are bound up for sale, while the remainder is held in unbound sheets until the first five hundred are sold. The first five hundred constitute the first issue of the first edition. Then say another two hundred copies are bound possibly in wrappers, or in a different-colored cloth or buckram, or in cloth with a slightly different weave, or perhaps in the same cloth, with or without blind lines or publisher’s device, as the case may be. Even if the first binding is duplicated exactly, which, in fact, is nearly impossible, these copies are the second issue of the first edition.
Henry David Thoreau’s A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers was printed in an edition of a thousand copies in 1849. A few less than three hundred were sold. These copies are the first issue of the first edition. Thoreau bought back the remainder (he paid for the printing in the first place) and put them in his attic. After his death these were reissued with a new title page dated 1862, and they constitute the second issue of the first edition. A copy is worth considerably less than one of the first issue, in spite of the slight association value it has. Who knows if Thoreau didn’t actually handle my copy, for which I paid only $20 in the early thirties? I like to think so.
A catalogue description may be helpful at this point:
A Boy’s Will. Robert Frost. New York: Henry Holt, 1915. 12mo, original cloth.
First American Edition. First Issue with the misprint “Aind” for “And” in the last line on p. 14. Backstrip slightly dull; otherwise fine.
This description implies that a certain number of copies of the Holt edition were actually sold by the publisher before the misprint was corrected. After the mistake was changed a second issue went forth.
The word “state” is often seen in book catalogues. This may be explained by quoting an example from David A. Randall’s New Paths in Book-Collecting, 1934. Writing of Robert Frost’s Mountain Interval,1916, he says it exists in three “states.” “In the first, on page 88, line 6 was omitted and line 7 duplicated, so both lines 6 and 7 read, ‘You’re further under the snow—that’s all.’ In the second the error was corrected, line 6 reading as it should, ‘Sounds further off, it’s not because it’s dying,’ and a cancel leaf was inserted. The third is like the second except that that leaf is an integral part of the signature.” The use of the word “state” here instead of “issue” means that the copies with duplicate lines were corrected before the book was issued by the publishers and that all three “states” were issued at the same time. Had some copies of the book been issued before the remaining copies were corrected as he describes, and then issued at a later date, the word “issue” and not “state” would be correct.
The term “cancel leaf” refers to the occasional practice of cutting out a certain leaf of a book that has been printed and bound, and of pasting on the stub thus left another leaf with different wordings. Cancellations are done by publishers to save expense. If some copies go out before a cancellation is made, these copies constitute the first issue, but if all copies are published after cancellation, then no “issue” is involved.
The word “signature” is the binder’s term for a folded sheet. It was the practice some years ago to print a small letter or figure in the margin at the foot of the first page of a sheet, to guide the binder in folding, but this practice has been carried out less and less in recent years in the United States.
A general ruling regarding printer’s errors might be formulated as follows: Printer’s errors are unimportant so far as values and “points” go. One of Conrad’s bibliographers points out that the first edition of his The Arrow of Gold, 1919, lacks the letter “A” from the title heading on page 67 (which reads, “The rrow of Gold”), and concludes that the second issue has the omission rectified. This is silly, as most hair-splitting generally is, for in this instance during the process of printing the sheets the letter on the press wore away; the printer realized this and, after inserting a new letter A, started the press again. Both copies, with the A or without it, are the first issue.
A good general rule to follow in the case of advertisements in the back of a book in deciding an “issue” is that the dates of advertisements at the end of a book are often misleading and do not, with any degree of certainty, designate priority of issue.
Collectors will be wise to buy books when possible with the dust wrapper preserved, for then they will be more certain of getting a cleaner copy and one less shopworn. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, however, a dust wrapper has little or nothing to do with priority of issue, and if it should have, how are you going to be sure that you have the original wrapper that the book had when issued? A dust wrapper is important mainly because it helps keep a book in pristine condition.
Collectors are advised to retain the dust wrappers on their books. Personally I find they give variety and color to the walls of my library, and they do protect the books from dirt and the bindings from fading. If one is forced to sell a book he will get more for it if it has the dust wrapper than if it is missing, since most collectors desire immaculate “mint” copies if such exist, and dust wrappers help keep a book in fine condition.
A misunderstanding exists even among experienced collectors, I am told by bookseller friends, concerning the meaning of the words “uncut” and “unopened.” Uncut means that the pages of a book have not been trimmed by the knife of a binder, or since it left the printing press. Unopened means that the pages, folded in the printing and binding process, have not been cut or “opened” by a paper knife to enable one to read the book. I always cut the pages as I want to read them, but there are many collectors who will pay much more for an unopened copy than for one with the leaves cut, and they leave them unopened on their shelves.
The collector may be warned about the flossy type of so-called deluxe editions that are made-to-order rarities, and fly-by-night private press books. These badly printed productions are not to be confused with the fine press books issued by top-notch printers such as the Limited Editions Club, the Heritage Press (as a rule), the Spiral Press, the Grabhorn Press, the Yale University Press, the Nonesuch Press, the Overbrook Press, the Southworth-Anthoensen Press, the Peter Pauper Press, the Colt Press, the Trovillion Press, and other fine presses.
There is a difference, also, in “presentation” copies. A real presentation copy will generally carry the author’s presentation inscription to a friend with his signature, and this type of book does have association and sentimental value as well as a higher commercial value than copies that contain only the author’s signature, often practically forced, or done in a shop window or in a department store, to sell the book.
Beware, too, of forgeries, as there have been many instances of “forged” presentation copies. I recommend to the reader a most interesting book called The Shelley Legend, by Robert Metcalf Smith, New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1945, which gives a clear account of some famous literary forgeries. Lady Shelley said: “I have seen letters of Shelley’s that have been forged so exactly that no man could possibly have detected them who did not possess the originals.” The Shelley forger was self-styled “Major George Gordon Byron” and claimed to be Byron’s son by a Spanish lady (his real name was probably De Gibler). He made his living for some years selling autograph letters, Byron presentation inscriptions in countless volumes, forged Shelley and Keats letters, and other literary documents he wrote himself.
Do not bind your first editions, but if they are rare enough, or if you can afford it, it would be fine to have slipcases made for your valuable and treasured books. If you do have a book rebound, the binder should be warned n
ot to trim the edges, not to cut out inscriptions or advertisements. Bind as is.
In France books are generally issued in paper wrappers so that the owner can bind them to suit his or her taste, but contemporary books lose a large percentage of their value so far as collectors are concerned if they are rebound.
Condition is of utmost importance to the collector unless the book is a great rarity or is a presentation copy or has some association value. Never buy less than a “fine” copy if a “fine” copy of the book exists.
Edwin B. Hill, the dean of private printers in this country, for many years a resident of Ysleta, Texas, whence he issued his pamphlets to those fortunate enough to get them, and now of Tempe, Arizona, is a book collector and reader of his books. His attitude is typical of that of many book lovers, so I quote from a recent letter:
In my sixty-odd years of serious garnering of books, I have placed first the book itself. Then, condition. Of course, I would possess a book in immaculate condition—but, not being financially opportune, I have chosen the best I could (not!) afford.
I’ve chosen books from libraries of importance when they were to be acquired—private collections; books with inscriptions; books from libraries of persons of whom I have knowledge.
Condition? I picked up a first edition of one of Emerson’s scarcer books—not a great rarity—for a dime. It was in the Salvation Army store in El Paso. It had been damp stained and the cover is loose. It could be expertly repaired—but I have preferred to add other books to my holdings for the sum the repairs would cost. So this ruin is one of the “as is” brand.
The few books I have left from the Charles Lamb library are of course in sad condition. You remember what Crabb Robinson said of Lamb’s library—the finest collection of books in the worst possible condition he had ever seen? Lamb went the step further. He chose books in wretched condition for the reason that he could afford them. While I have not tried to out-Lamb Saint Charles, I’ve certain books in that category. After all, the book’s the thing.
A Passion for Books Page 33