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 In the dim, dear days almost beyond recall when I lived in Los Angeles one of my several running gripes against that spray-on city was its paucity of secondhand book stores. New bookshops were not a problem. two major campuses and a flock of lesser ones across the greater Los angeles sprawl saw to that. But where were those musty, dusty, faintly Victorian haunts of my suburban London yesteryears, those quiet sanctuaries for browsing introverts? They simply hadn't translated. Couldn’t.
The culture clash was too extreme. It wasn’t that Los Angelinos couldn’t read. Some of them could. It was that for a city less of angels than of immigrants toting trunkfulls of books across country or continents was too much of a logistical luxury. Buy new ones on arrival. I searched in vain for that downtown Big Sleep street where Bogart and Dorothy Malone spoke volumes to each other. Already, you see, I was a collector of books. In my teens I had become a haunter myself of those proudly shabby side-street stores that on each new visit promised that this time, surely, they would turn into an Aladdin’s cave and, just often enough to bring me back time and time again, did indeed reward this childlike faith. I had become a (modest) collector of books in the best of ways. Growing up, I for years made use of excellent local public libraries. Then, by slow process of osmosis it seeped in upon me that for minimal outlay I could become permanently possessed of a twofold pleasure. A well-made book is a pleasing object – a made thing that feels good to handle and does indeed furnish a room. But the thing is only a container. Within, brought to us by the miracle of language is, yes, Chandler or Melville or The Interpretation of Dreams or what you will. Initially, I had bought a random assortment of titles and editions purely for each book’s content. One day it dawned on me. These two (Scott Fitzgeralds, actually) were part of a uniform (not first) edition. Four further purchases would see the set completed. Thus I was hooked. Some have greatness thrust upon them but the truest collectors have their obsession infiltrate their lives with the gentlest stealth. The cub scout who, feeling outgunned at summer camp because he has no ‘worthy’ hobby and comes home and proclaims that he is now going to collect stamps or coins or bottles, is doing it all wrong. Because he or she is keeping up with the smart kid down the block the choice is artificial and arbitrary. The intention is not likely to persist or generate long term pleasure. And this is true of cub scouts of all ages. The thrusting young executive (he already dyes his hair but who’s counting?) who casually shows off his collection of nineteenth century Japanese Satsuma is a sure bet to sell the lot overnight the moment his outfit goes belly-up. Mail-ordered Presidential spoons in their maple rack on the wall don’t begin to get on the collector’s scale but equally the Getty Museum out there over the San Andreas Fault is arguably the ultimate bad taste instance of keeping ahead of the Joneses. But for every J.P. there are scores of good guys. The man I once met in Tucson who collects carpenters’ planes (American, English, Scandinavian) because he loves working with wood and is fascinated by the way the tools of the craft vary region to region and effect to effect. The acquaintance I have in London who collects gasoline powered lawnmowers, would you believe, and restores them as if they were vintage Bugattis. The point of departure for his gentle mania was that, a dedicated gardener, he set out long ago on the search for the perfect shave for his lawn. Or there is my brother. A state of the art film sound technician (he’s been everywhere for Sixty Minutes) he collects turn of the century wax cylinder recordings and lives in hope of enhancing their antique, degenerating quality. Yes, hobbyist collectors may well not be too distantly allied to Don Quixote. I have my own problems. Although my range of interests is shamefully narrow (literature, movies, history, sport – if I came across a handsome first edition of a Victorian travel writer I would sell it on) decisions, decisions hit all the time. Do I buy this nice copy of a writer I loathe because it will complete a set…..? ‘Yes’ is the probable answer but, perhaps reprehensibly, it’s unlikely I will one day read it cover to cover. And how many versions of Tom Jones do I need? ‘One’ has to be the answer….no, make that ‘Two’. The fine big one with the thirties illustrations and the elegant ‘pocket book’ version with the lovely typeface. The others I must get around to selling or swapping or giving away to good homes. ‘Pocket books’, the paperbacks of the ‘20’s’ and ‘30’s’ are a constant problem. Often really pleasing objects, the editions tend to overlap far too much in their choice of titles. Pretty Pride and Prejudices all in a row are too much of a good thing. My response these days is to build up a (near complete) set and then, once again, pass it on. One day, of course, all my collection will be scattered to the four corners of the reading world. A sadness of browsing secondhand bookstores is discovering a swathe of recent acquisitions and learning from their identical personalized bookplates that someone you realize you would have liked to meet has died. In the hope that a kindly ghost will come and read over my shoulder and breathe a little wisdom in through my ear I nearly always buy one from such a cropping. Yes. You are quite right. It’s all nonsense. A book is a book is a book. Auction value apart (!) a modern feminist press’s edition of Gertrude Stein is as good as any first edition. We’re back to James Thurber, Miss Groby and ‘The container for the thing contained’. But then yet again, as with the pursuit of life, liberty and sex, it’s the journey (the search, the hunt, the quest) that counts and not the arrival, the end result. Tell it not in Gardena but the quiet introverts browsing those dusty shelves -–PALENTOLOGY, LANGUAGES, MILITARY HISTORY, THE OCCULT – are all proud explorers. There, almost on the edge of vision, faintly foxed, but nicely bound in buckram, is every one of their so varying El Dorados. |
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