From the Bookshop, February 2008

By Quillhill


Three days ago we received in the post a package addressed to "Christopher Morley, Mad About Books". As we view our blog we see in the sidebar a mask of foolishness followed by some philosophy from the fine writer Christopher Morley. Though the name of our blog is taken from his writing, and we adopted his column style of addressing ourself in the second person, and we
may even have a bit of his spirit within us or inhabiting our shop, we are not the man himself. We could be mistaken for someone much worse.

The package we received was not expected. The postman said it had been mailed from New York. Neither of our two readers hail from New York, so this delivery was a mystery. When we opened the package we found advance reader's copies of The Rain Before It Falls by Jonathan Coe, and Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri. Included was a letter from a Sales Coordinator at Random House explaining, "I've been reading and enjoying your blog for the last few months. I wanted to reach out and share two wonderful and much-loved books coming this Spring from Knopf."

We began reading Mr. Coe's novel immediately, and finished in three days. The novel begins with a framing narrative within which is told the first-person account of a dying woman, recorded on cassette tapes, about her family, the women in particular. According to the publisher, it is "about motherhood and family secrets, about how memory weaves tapestries both transcendent and tragic, and about the way we hold our most intimate stories
up against the past."

Rosamund seems haunted by regret as she nears the suicide she has planned to
relieve her from the pain of a fatal illness. In an attempt to redeem herself, she records a family history for her first cousin twice removed.

I am reaching the end of my life and for reasons
which will, I hope, become apparent to you as you listen to this recording,
I feel an obligation towards you, a sense of duty which has not yet been
fully discharged. ... What I want you to have, Imogen, above all, is a sense
of your own history; a sense of where you come from, and of the forces that
made you.

Rosamund selects twenty photographs which she will describe vividly and lengthily to Imogen, who was blinded in a childhood accident. Each description of a photograph constitutes a chapter. Rosamund, of course, does not stick strictly to what she sees, allowing her narrative to follow all the connective memories that are stirred up. This part of the novel is its strength, and Mr. Coe succeeds in telling an interesting story that keeps us reading. The one criticism we have of Rosamund's narrative is that it sounds more like a written rather than an oral history. She
expresses a sense of failure several times, and one might also have expected her to repeat herself, to tell the same event or fact in several different places. Her speech also sounds too modern, or not old enough, for example when she references skinheads. And though the quality of the story is not affected, there are several points where Rosamund admits her memory is
different from the photograph she sees, and we wonder if we are meant to take everything she says as truth.

The framing story serves to introduce the oral history, and to wrap up the loose ends of that history, and is otherwise purely decorative. Though the protagonist of the frame seems meant to discover the meaning of it all, she discovers instead that there is no higher meaning--no framing meaning--at all, only meaning that one gives to each moment of one's life. Still, all
the women in this novel, whether in the past or present, seem to be grasping for something to hold on to, to ground themselves, to make sense of their lives.

About this novel, the publisher writes that "[e]veryone at Knopf is certain it will win Jonathan the wide readership he has long deserved...." The publisher also quotes Bret Easton Ellisdescribing Mr. Coe as "the most exciting young British novelist writing today." He might be, and wealthy and handsome and charitable as well. Unfortunately, for us, the novel he has
written is not exciting. We were not left with a sense of awe. We did not marvel at theauthor's skills. Most of the novel presents a coherent, interesting story, and it doesn't add up to anything lasting, except a feeling that something is missing. Despite the fact the package was addressed to someone fifty years dead, and the enclosed letter begins "Dear Bookseller-Blogger," we would not be surprised to find out we are not the targeted audience. We make no attempts to hide a decided preference for older literature, what many might term classics. If The Rain Before It Falls is representative of modern fiction, our own manuscript will never survive outside the desk drawer.

Be the first to comment that you want to read this book, and Mr. Morley will forward it to you.

From the Bookshop, January 2008

By Quillhill


I used to read fiction books almost exclusively. The little non-fiction I
did read was mostly related to research for my own novels, and many times
not even the entire book. For whatever reason, non-fiction just didn't
engage me the way fiction did.

My first heavy reading of fiction centered around King Arthur and the Matter
of Britain. The next great focus of my interest was French decadence. Later
I read extensively in magical realism. All along I dipped regularly into
what most of us regard as the classics of literature. In the last year,
through connections such as Estella's Revenge, I have been exposed to and
sampled many different types of fiction that I would not normally have
chosen on my own. And a great deal of my reading time was spent engulfed in
Proust.

Recently, though, I have stared blankly at the novels on my shelf. I have
begun a few and lost any interest long before the last page. Non-fiction is
what has kept me busy reading, what has primarily engaged me through this
fall and into the winter. I have enjoyed books about Vermeer, the American
Revolution, space, history, politics, early Christianity, and, of course,
books about books. Over the past several years, I have elected to read
non-fiction books more and more often, but this is the first time they have
ever been my preferred reading material.

I cannot explain why I sometimes crave pizza, or chocolate chip cookies.
Usually I satisfy such a craving with the understanding that my body has
communicated an urgent need for some key ingredient in those foods. Neither
can I explain the change in my preferred reading material. Is it a base
dissatisfaction with the quality of modern fiction? Is it a remarkable
improvement in the quality of modern non-fiction? Is it a renewed thirst for
knowledge? Is it a process of aging, an unrecognized shift in outlook toward
life, that what might be has passed, and what is will forever be? My mind, like my body, must know what it needs.

Non-fiction is a record of facts. Writers like Jacques Barzun, John Ferling,
and Peggy Noonan have a talent for turning those facts into stories, of
engaging the reader, of showing us a larger picture and greater meaning.
They allow one to learn the facts almost subconsciously, without having to
study them. Fiction is factual, too--even fantasies about unicorns or
horrors about vampires are constructed on a set of internally consistent
laws. What fiction presents to us that non-fiction cannot is possibilities.

When I write, I use fiction to explore possibilities. What if an act of
treason was actually a tragic misunderstanding? What if a man wanted to live
out loud? What if a woman could transgress the bounds of reality? What if
Jesus fathered a daughter? What if a bookstore was a portal to infinite
possibilities? I read non-fiction to learn about things already known. I
write and read fiction to learn about things yet unknown. For this reason
alone, I will probably always favor fiction.

Non-fiction has likely established itself as something I will continue to
seek out and enjoy. But soon I will read another novel that absolutely
amazes me. My appetite for fiction will be renewed, and so many books that
have been waiting patiently on the shelf will gain my attention. I will
wonder again at what might be.

Pick up a book of fiction today. The possibilities are endless.

From the Bookshop, October 2007

By Quillhill

An element of the unknown is one of the key pleasures of the used bookshop. There are treasures to be discovered in almost every shop, and stories abound of intrepid book-hunters who have found a rare volume at the bottom of a dollar bin, or a lost manuscript bound in with something as common as a Book of Hours.

One might think there is nothing unknown to the owner of a particular bookshop. That is not always the case. Many shop keepers have specialties, and one who is knowledgeable about the value of religious texts may not have a clue as to what a first edition of Thomas Pynchon is worth. Such bargains always await the book-hunter. There is also an infinite variety of ephemera to be found inside books, stuck there by former owners as place markers or for safe keeping. Just last week as we were systematically researching our political sciences collection, we came across a Sheridan Square Press hardcover edition of Profits of War, by Ari Ben-Menashe that looked normal for the first twenty-four pages, but the remainder of the text block had been cut to fit two velvet-lined compartments in which said profits of war could be hidden for easy smuggling or forgetting. What we discovered inside we will allow one to imagine, for the possibilities are endless, and the unknown is sweeter than the known.

The Haunted Bookshop, by Christopher Morley, is, if not the most famous, surely the most pleasurable experience of the unknown in bookstore lore. This tale is a sequel to Parnassus on Wheels, following Roger Mifflin as the owner of a bricks and mortar store. One of the many placards hung in the shop reads:

THIS SHOP IS HAUNTED by the ghosts
Of all great literature, in hosts;

And as the bookflap says:They are the great spirits of the literary past and their part in the story is too much fun to spoil by any foremention. Open the covers of The Haunted Bookshop and simply read the first three paragraphs and one will find oneself drawn inside by the lure of the unknown (as well as the quality of writing).

For those uninterested in the Romantic (that insatiable yearning for the unattainable with a capital R, not the heaving breasts of lust with a minuscule r), any Barnes and Noble will tell you with certainty whether or not they possess a particular book, where exactly that book can be found, or how to go about acquiring the book elsewhere. For those steeped in the Romantic, the uncatalogued collection of a used bookshop offers all the pleasures of the unknown. We once heard of a bookshop whose owner would reply to any query about a specific book by saying, "I'm sure I have it, I'm just not sure where." And if one wanted that specific book, off one went to hunt for it. The shop was literally overflowing with books, so the owner probably didn't know where to find anything. But what he did know was that even if a book-lover couldn't find the specific book she was looking for, more often than not she could find several that she didn't know she was looking for. It is that surprise and delight that keeps us in the hunt. A bookshop is truly a repository of unknown treasures and delights.

From the Bookshop..., June 2007

By Quillhill

With the removal of each page from the Book of the Day calendar, summer draws nearer. The temperature rises, and thoughts turn to light reading of fast-paced paperbacks, an escape from the care and special handling required with the rare tomes and modern first editions we so desire. Yet not everyone enjoys the beach. Where does one turn to escape the heat?

To the bookshop! Your Bibliothecary has five wonderful books to prescribe for a mind that needs a chill and a soul that needs a thrill.

Man has an insatiable need to explore his world, and not even the harshest conditions can deter him. Antarctica is stingy with her secrets, but for those who are willing to face her forbidding challenges, there is also incredible beauty to be found. One of the most determined of those men was Ernest Shackleton.

The Endurance, by Caroline Alexander tells the gripping story of Shackleton's legendary expedition of 1914-15. What was planned as a trek across the middle of the continent became an epic of survival. Ms. Alexander tells the amazing story, incorporating first-hand photographs and accounts, and keeps the reader breathlessly turning the pages. The sense of heightened conflict rises relentlessly until the incredible conclusion of what is perhaps the greatest adventure story ever.

South With Endurance: Shackleton's Antarctic Expedition 1914-1917 presents a handful of essays from different writers to supplement the photographs of Frank Hurley. Though much of his record had to be abandoned on the ice, a wealth of stunning still images survived and they are presented here in full glory. They reveal the incredible beauty that hides the uncompromising dangers of Antarctica.

Shackleton's plan to cross the continent involved another ship and crew to lay down supplies on the far side of the pole. Shackleton's Forgotten Men: The Untold Tragedy of the Endurance Epic, by Lennard Bickel, tells the story of the Aurora and her crew. Like their counterparts, they were stranded on the ice and faced astonishing challenges in order to survive. They also completed much of their mission. This book has far fewer photographs to support a somewhat drier written account of a similar story, but one that ends differently.

Antarctica: Journeys to the South Pole, by Walter Dean Myers, chronicles each of the major expeditions to the frozen continent. James Cook was the first to cross the Antarctic Circle. James Clark Ross, Charles Wilkes, Carsten Borchgrevink, Adrien de Gerlache de Gomery, Robert Falcon Scott, Roald Amundsen, and Douglas Mawson all led heroic expeditions to, around, and across the continent. Shackleton went three times. The most interesting and tragic story follows the race to the pole between Scott and Amundsen. The Norwegians set out twelve days ahead of the British, and reached their destination a full month ahead. What must it have felt like for Scott and his party when they came upon the Norwegian flag planted in the snow, the evidence that they had been beaten? Disappointment turned to depression, and all the men perished.

The Worst Journey in the World is the first-hand account of Scott's fateful expedition by its youngest member, and one of the search party that found Scott's frozen body, Apsley Cherry-Garrard. Unlike Shackleton's accounts of his own expedition, which present a limited viewpoint, Cherry-Garrard offers a much broader overview of Scott's expedition, offering general information and background, as Ms. Alexander does in her book, in addition to the personal details of their daily trials.

When Richard Evelyn Byrd led his expedition to the continent in 1928, technology had overcome many of the dangers that the earlier explorers had faced. Though he still sailed in a wooden ship, he now had full support of airplanes and radio. Today, most people who go to Antarctica are not explorers, but scientists, their mission to conduct experiments or study nature, living in permanent structures, and they are rarely, if ever, cut off from the rest of the world. Thankfully we have books filled with the personal accounts and detailed histories of the great era of exploration to allow us to relive the heroics of men like Scott and Shackleton.

Come in to the bookshop and enjoy the cool oasis, a respite from the outdoors. These books and more await, and the Antarctic ice never melts. Your mind and body deserve a vacation from the heat.

From the Bookshop..., May 2007

Contributed by Quillhill

Excerpt from The Enemies of Books by William Blades, 1888

"It was summer time--the country at its best--and with the attraction of an old book, I decided on a day's holiday, and eight o'clock the next morning found me in the train for C----, and after a variation in my programme, caused by my having walked three miles west before I discovered that my destination was three miles east of the railway station, I arrived at the rectory at noon, and found assembled some thirty or forty of the neighbouring farmers, their wives, men-servants and maid-servants, all seemingly bent on a day's idling, rather than business. The sale was announced for noon, but it was an hour later before the auctioneer put in an appearance, and the first operation in which he took part, and in which he invited my assistance, was to make a hearty meal of bread and cheese and beer in the rectory kitchen. This over, the business of the day began by a sundry collection of pots, pans, and kettles being brought to the competition of the public, followed by some lots of bedding, etc. The catalogue gave books as the first part of the sale, and, as three o'clock was reached, my patience was gone, and I protested to the auctioneer against his not selling in accordance with his catalogue. To this he replied that there was not time enough, and that he would sell the books to-morrow! This was too much for me, and I suggested that he had broken faith with the buyers, and had brought me to C---- on a false pretence. This, however, did not seem to disturb his good humour, or to make him unhappy, and his answer was to call `Bill,' who was acting as porter, and to tell him to give the gentleman the key of the `book room,' and to bring down any of the books he might pick out, and he `would sell 'em.' I followed `Bill,' and soon found myself in a charming nook of a library, full of books, mostly old divinity, but with a large number of the best miscellaneous literature of the sixteenth century, English and foreign. A very short look over the shelves produced some thirty Black Letter books, three or four illuminated missals, and some book rarities of a more recent date. `Bill' took them downstairs, and I wondered what would happen! I was not long in doubt, for book by book, and in lots of two and three, my selection was knocked down in rapid succession, at prices varying from 1_s_. 6_d_. to 3_s_. 6_d_., this latter sum seeming to be the utmost limit to the speculative turn of my competitors. The _bonne bouche_ of the lot was, however, kept back by the auctioneer, because, as he said, it was `a pretty book,' and I began to respect his critical judgment, for `a pretty book' it was, being a large paper copy of Dibdin's Bibliographical Decameron, three volumes, in the original binding. Suffice it to say that, including this charming book, my purchases did not amount to L13, and I had pretty well a cart-load of books for my money--more than I wanted much! Having brought them home, I `weeded them out,' and the `weeding' realised four times what I gave for the whole, leaving me with some real book treasures.

"Some weeks afterwards I heard that the remainder of the books were literally treated as waste lumber, and carted off to the neighbouring town, and were to be had, any one of them, for sixpence, from a cobbler who had allowed his shop to be used as a store house for them. The news of their being there reached the ears of an old bookseller in one of the large towns, and he, I think, cleared out the lot. So curious an instance of the most total ignorance on the part of the sellers, and I may add on the part of the possible buyers also, I think is worth noting."

From the Bookshop..., April 2007

By Quillhill

Often writers are asked where they get their ideas. The usual reply is that ideas are not hard to find: they are everywhere if one only look, and see. What non-writers don't understand is that the difficulty comes in the actual writing, fleshing out the idea into a character, a story, a complete world. How does one put into words the vision one has so that others may likewise see it and understand it? The creative arts, according to Daniel Boorstin, must do nothing less than enlarge, embellish, fantasize, and filigree our experience.

What makes writing so difficult? There are diversions, such as the telephone. There are distractions, such as the television. When time comes to write, there often seems to be something more urgent that needs to be done, like composing a list for the market, or catching up on correspondence, or washing the dog. Some writers might even read or reorganize their desk and convince themselves these activities are in the service of their writing.

Some writers require deadlines in order to produce. For us, procrastination is a constant companion, but the pressure of a deadline tends to inhibit creativity. We want not to write about the first thing that comes to mind, such as the sounds that herald spring: the laughter of children, the songs of birds, the heavy panting of dogs, the pounding bass of cars with windows rolled down. What we write needs to have meaning, pierce us, enlighten us. As we contemplated our blank computer screen, wondering how to turn it into this month's column, all we found was empty loneliness. Nothing was forthcoming.

Many artists believe in a personal muse. The more earnest our pleas for help, the further our muse fades away. Some writers try to woo their muse, others feel they must capture it unawares. The wisest will feign indifference, turn their back and go forward, and find their muse hastening to catch up. Inspiration is the reward of daily practice.

What is the creative impulse? From where does it arise, and can it be harnessed? Is there a creativity gene, or as Arthur Koestler posits, is it more a function of one's ability to recognise the intersection of different matrices of knowledge? We often think of creativity as a public display, though it is talent which allows some people the opportunities to share their creativity with others. Everyone can be creative, whether preparing a meal or decorating a cake, planting a garden or painting a room, planning a holiday or dreaming of one. And even some of those people who lack talent now have a weblog that allows them to share with others, too.

There is a sensibility that to struggle with the creative process is necessary to the creation of art. A person must suffer for their art, bestowing upon their work nobility. One is left to wonder whether an author who publishes a new novel every month is really a writer, or merely a typist.

We sat in the bookshop on the day of the deadline, columnless, already given up the hope of creating anything new this month, when the muse snuck up and touched us. Quick, she announced, to the Notepad! Write as if our column depended upon it. When we are finished here we will have opportunity to demand, Where have you been, young Lady? Then, immediately repentant, we will beg her to stay.

Had the German writer Johann Wolfgang von Goethe been a contributor to Estella's Revenge, he would not have produced such a column as this. His, perhaps, was the greater wisdom, for he sought not to understand a mystery like creativity:

"I, being an artist, regard this as of little moment. Indeed, I prefer that the principle from which and through which I work should be hidden from me. The more incommensurable and incomprehensible for the understanding a poetic creation may be, the better."

From the Bookshop....

By Quillhill

The other day a woman brought in an exquisite Bible that she had read from as a child with her grandfather. He had passed it on to her, and for a long time she had thought she would pass it on to her child or grandchild. Then she heard the buzz about a market for books and came to ask, "Would you tell me how much this book is worth?"

Like other precious stones, metals, antiques and collectibles, fine books almost always appreciate in value. They are a good investment, with less risk than the stock market. Even for the average reader, there is still a thrill to be had in finding that one title by a favorite author, or upgrading a book in one's collection from paperback to hardback.

Part of the joy of hunting books is the hope and possibility of stumbling upon a signed first edition, dusty in an attic, or a forbidden classic bound up within a mundane treatise on manure. Though such buried treasures do exist, waiting to be discovered, there are also gems lying everywhere, like diamonds on the beach. I recently picked up a 1960s edition of a companion book to a fictional series that so many others had passed, and sold it the next day for fifteen times what I had paid, which was most certainly still below its high-end value.

How does this happen? Well, to be sure much of it has to do with the competition. The internet has given rise to hordes of book scouts and dealers in search of an easy profit. Many of them join the hunt armed with bar code scanners, which, of course, don't work on pre-ISBN books, and so they ignore many opportunities. Many others specialize, and those who are looking for religion, or military history, or children's books will again pass right by historical fiction, or not know what they are seeing when they look.

How can you find those gems? First, by trusting intuition. Yes, you will often be wrong, yet you will often be right. Intuition, after all, is usually a manifestation of an accumulation of knowledge, just as luck is usually putting oneself in the right situation at the right time. I once acquired a book at nominal cost, though I knew nothing about it, merely because it was thick and in fine condition. Several months later I sold it for 125 times my cost. And a few months before that sale I found another copy of the same book, though at a higher price, and having learned its true value, bought and resold that one within days for twice what I paid. Second, overlook nothing. The dealer in religious books may not have any use for historical fiction, but she can trade for something she can use. Many times books will wander away from their categories and end up among others not like themselves. And the little unmarked items look inconspicuous, but are sometimes the easiest to find, precisely because they are so easily overlooked. I know of a dealer who regularly sells old paperback romance novels for prices that have three digits before the decimal.

In our shop, some of the books we offer are purposely underpriced, offering the diligent book hunter the discovery of unexpected treasure. Dollars, though, can never wholly measure a book's value. Browsing for something you didn't know you wanted is also a great way to turn up hidden gems of writing that don't adorn the bestseller lists, yet still sparkle in one's mind when read. And finding another copy of the rather common Christopher Morley books Parnassus on Wheels and The Haunted Bookshop still stirs excitement in this collector. Gems are everywhere.

When someone says, "Would you tell me how much this book is worth?" the correct answer can only ever be a measure of its value to the owner.