An Old Time Book Buy

Yesterday morning was in some ways like old times.

Ken Mallory--who worked for A Cappella for over a decade before venturing out to become a bona fide antiquarian bookman himself--joined me for a drive down to a Jonesboro storage unit to dig through 37 boxes of books accumulated by another inveterate bibliophile.

A long time ago, these were the type of adventures that made our business what it was. It was the thrill of the hunt. The unpredictabilty of what we might find. And, of course, the financial reality that buying unwanted out-of-print books in bulk to then sell individually, over time, to customers who recognized their value, offered a decent margin of profit.

The internet, of course, has changed all of this. Not only does out-of-print not mean much any more, since a book not being published anymore doesn't mean that it's not still extremely common online--thus of little dollar value, but that very fact means that the fun of looking for something elusive--and potentially valuable-- is completely gone.

So, book calls like these aren't exactly what they used to be. We know we're going to be looking mostly at books that are so common that they're not worth buying. I predicted before we left that of the 37 boxes of books we'd probably we lucky to come away with 3 boxes full, with maybe one or two books being of any real value. It turns out I was just a little off; we actually wound up with 5 boxes.

The internet age is far enough along that I'm past being sad about how much the appeal of such collections has deteriorated. In some ways, since the "keepers" are fewer, it makes the dig a little bit more of an exciting challenge. Whereas it was once like shooting fish in a barrel; now it really pays to understand the fishing conditions.

So rather than bemoan the "worthlessness," at least from a business or collectable perspective, of nice hardcover copies of fine literature by the likes of John Fowles, Joyce Carol Oates or William Kotzwinkle, I'm still struck by, despite the obvious coming end of the era of books, how undeniably, intrisically valuable some of our modest finds are:

The first book I saw in the first box I opened: a well-worn, but still readable copy of Huey Long's populist manifesto, Every Man a King. No matter what, I am sure that the mixed feeling of affection and cynicism that I get every time I see that book will never disappear for people like me, despite how generally obsolete printed words and paper may continue to become. Or the ability the book itself has, when you hold it in your hands and read Long's words, to convey a sense of his irresistibly intriguing character.

Other books we pulled from the boxes included an early 20th century tome on the history of capital punishment, complete with engravings of such techniques as "execution by boiling," "execution by sawing into two," "execution by hacking into pieces with knives." Keeping a market alive for books like this is an act of cultural preservation.

We now have a nice old reprint of the WPA's guide to New Orleans. A battered copy of Orwell's Road to Wigan Pier. A nice early dust-jacketed Modern Library edition (with Thomas Hart Benton's illustration) of Grapes of Wrath. An Evelyn Waugh title I'd never seen before. A first edition of Jane Hamilton's second book.

We found a 1970s hardcover of George Bataille's transgressive masterpiece Story of the Eye, a first edition of one of Charles Portis' several masterpieces, and Ken's favorite, Masters of Atlantis. We picked up a paperback copy of the uncommon, but far-from-rare Mass Psychology of Fascism by Wilhelm Reich, a paperback published by MIT of Mikhael Baktin's Rablais and His World and all sorts of other finds that together comprise not a particularly coherent collection but a physical and aesthetically felicitous testament to the intellectual expansiveness and endlessly fascinating nature of the human experience.

It may no longer be a way to make much of a living, this buying and selling of old books, but that's not bad compensation for a morning's labor.

And then, being on an endless highway in the land of decaying suburban sprawl, we were lucky enough to find a Mexican grocery store with a tacqeria inside, and for about what we'll hope to sell the average book among the 5 box-haul for, we re-fueled on some fantastic and authentic tacos, fish and pork and chicken all grilled to order on fresh, hot corn tortillas. Hot sauce and a cool slice of avacado.

The end of this way of life I have lived for 20+ years is obviously nearing, but I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.

Frank Reiss