I confess that I am a bibliophile: I collect books. All kinds of books. And I collect them in a fashion that drives many rare book dealers crazy because I buy what I want to read, thereby providing many of them with no discernible pattern against which they can market their wares since what I want to read often depends upon the moment and my mood. A few dealers – the ones with whom I deal most regularly – have figured out some of my preferences, but they are in the minority.
To be specific, I collect first editions of modern English and American fiction, but this is about as fine a point as I am willing to put upon my interests. My collection spans the gamut of literary types, from fine literature to science fiction and fantasy. If I have a personal favorite, it is probably a good mystery written by a classic mystery writer: Dashiell Hammett; Dorothy Sayers; Wilkie Collins; Raymond Chandler; Rex Stout; Margery Allingham; Agatha Christie; or Ross Macdonald. I have an almost complete Ross Macdonald collection and am still working to find the few I do not own.
The true joy of book collecting is in the hunt, not in the possession of the books themselves. There is nothing more enjoyable than stumbling, in some fashion, across a fine copy of a book that you have mentally tagged as interesting and worthy of collection. This is best done in a used or rare book store, the kind with thousands of volumes that call to me upon entry. Once I have gained entry, I will spend the next hour or so puttering around the shelves that contain fiction of one variety or another to see what there is to be found. It doesn’t really matter if I find anything, and often I don’t. Having a considerable number of books already in my home, I really don’t need any more since my present To Read List already may have more volumes than I have minutes left for reading, so not finding a book in such a store is almost as good as finding one.
But finding a book you want to read and keep is the highest joy. Many years ago, I found a signed, limited edition of Richard Llewellyn’s How Green Was My Valley. When published during the author’s life time, limited editions are often signed by the author, as this one was. But it also contains a further handwritten dedication by Llewellyn, done in a flowing fountain pen script, to members of his publisher’s staff discussing his pleasure in their having introduced him to the Essex Street ham, tongue, cheese, brown bread and chocolate lunch. Imagine my joy: not only had I found one of only two hundred copies of this particular edition of the book, but I also received the gift of many hours of speculation over what the possible enticement of that particular combination of foods might be. I still have no good answer to this enigma and if I am ever in London (since that is where I suppose Essex Street to be) and can find an establishment serving such fare, I swear I will give it a try. Meanwhile, the book rests within my library and is often to hand, since I delight in reading the dedication to friends and fellow bibliophiles.
In this age, buying books on line is also more than possible. I suspect millions of books are for sale on line on any given day, and I further suspect that perhaps at least as many as one in every ten thousand on line sellers has some idea of what it takes to be a good book dealer. In other words, this is not a favorite venue of mine for seeking books, but it is not one I overlook, either. I have learned that the Internet is an acceptable place to purchase rare books if you know and trust a particular dealer, but not otherwise. It only took one cheat to convince me to reserve my on line efforts for those whom I know, and he (for it was a he) only cost me $10.00.
Even though I engage in on line buying, it isn’t as fun as holding a rare book in your hands and being able to observe and feel its qualities first hand. Several years ago, a favorite San Francisco rare book dealer once gave me the privilege of holding a first edition of James Joyce’s Ulysses, a book I could not afford then and still cannot afford now. I cherish that moment in my memories fo book hunting, even though I am never likely to own a first edition this particular book without first winning a very large lottery.
Still, buying on line can be fun as well. For example, I recently purchased three books during a live, on line auction from PBA Galleries, a San Francisco book auction house whom I trust. All three editions were signed by their authors. One was a spur of the moment purchase that I couldn’t pass up when the book came up for sale and I realized that it was an obscure volume by George Bernard Shaw (The Political Madness in America and Nearer Home) dedicated to a collector in his own hand at Ayot Saint Lawrence, his home in England. The title and the fact of this being an election year means it is a “must read” before November. The anticipation of enjoying Shaw’s acerbic, pointed wit directed toward American politics during a Presidential election year was simply too much to pass up.
The other two were a volume of science fiction (Children of Dune, signed by its author Frank Herbert) and a volume of comics (Ten Ever-Lovin’ Blue-Eyed Years With Pogo, signed by Walt Kelly). Now I am a genuine Dune fan and have several of the volumes in the series in first or signed editions, but, as big a fan as I am, nothing compares to my joy in Pogo and his friends. I do not yet have a complete run of the volumes published during Walt Kelly’s life (although I am so close), so every addition to my collection is a blessing. And this is where on line purchasing of rare books (yes, the Pogo books are considered rare by many, especially as most of them are cheaply made paperbacks and finding them in good condition is difficult) has an advantage – for I had to wait over a week to see and hold my purchase, and I received great joy coming home each evening wondering whether or not the books had yet arrived.
When this particular package did arrive, I opened the Shaw and the Herbert first, saving the Kelly – the largest of the three books by far – until last. When I opened the package, I was first struck by its condition (very good with a very good dust jacket with two small tears.), but it was when I opened the book to its facing page that I found true joy – for there, in Walt Kelly’s own hand, was a dedication to Jack (whomever he may be or have been) by Albert Alligator and Walt himself. Albert, of course, did not sign (no doubt due to not wanting to put down his ever-present cigar which I am positive he is holding out of my sight), but Walt had drawn a gorgeous profile of him, complete with bow tie.
If you are asking yourself “who is Albert Alligator or, for that matter, what’s a Pogo”, I have only envy for your ignorance. For you can easily cure your ignorance, and in that cure lie many hours of future, first-time joy. You can find copies of Walt Kelly’s creatures in books at your local used book stores and some new bookstores yet today, several years after Walt’s death. And if you are in a hurry to begin your cure, you can even find Walt’s creations on line. I strongly suspect that you are already aware of Walt’s best known quotation, which is: “We have met the enemy and he is us”, a line still quoted in many contexts and usually attributed to Pogo Possum himself, but I have even seen a strip where it was uttered by Albert.
So today my library is far more complete than it was, for then it lacked a portrait of Albert and now it has one. I am looking at Albert as I type, and I find that he brings a smile to my face and joy to my heart as I anticipate re-reading many of the strips in this volume. He is a reminder of so many happy hours spent in a long ago childhood reading the Pogo strips when they were first new and Walt was still alive, and having this original drawing is simply precious.
And this realization brings me to my final confession – sometimes the having is far more fun than the hunt.
