Showing posts with label Libraries. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Libraries. Show all posts

Monday, July 15, 2013

Book Heisters & Gangbusters: The Notorious Rare Book Thieves of New York And Their Nemesis

by Stephen J. Gertz


There was Babyface Mahoney, who made the libraries of New England his playground; the Swede; Harry Gold, whose scouts were not Baden-Powell boys yet still tied the cops into knots; "Doctor" Harold Clarke, whose Ph.D was in larceny and logorrhea; the Southerner Dupree, who'd steal almost anything; the thief known only as Paul, a nimble lifter who could jump through a library window with the loot if need be; Ben Harris, the Dane who sold illegal erotica, was savvy, fearless, and knew the score. There was Jack Brocher, who hijacked Connecticut, tipped it over, and poured its rare books into New York; Oscar the fence Chudnowsky; the shadowy master thief known as Hilderwald, Hilderman, or Hilderbrand, a literary tourist on the wrong path who checked into the Library of Congress and checked out with rarities purloined as if they were hotel toiletries and towels; and more members of the crew, desperado biblioklepts all.

And then there was Charles Romm, who, with fire hydrant physique and the face and temperament of Al Capone, led this gang responsible for a five year tsunami of rare book thievery at Columbia University Library, Harvard Library, the New York Public Library, Boston Public Library, and almost every other public and private library in the Northeast, the many small town libraries easy pickin's. The books were scoured of obvious ID and then made their way to Book Row on New York City's Fourth Avenue, six long city blocks lined with the greatest concentration of secondhand book shops in the world. From Book Row the literary swag went up the food chain onto the shelves or into the back rooms of upscale rare and antiquarian booksellers in uptown Manhattan who weren't too picky about provenance, looked the other way, or were duped. The years 1926-1931 were open season for book hunters of dubious character stealing and/or dealing in hot rare books.

But G. William Bergquist, Special Investigator for the NYPL with a bloodhound nose and terrier disposition, was on their trail.

The beginning of the end for the outfit began with a copy of Poe's scarce Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems (1829). On Saturday, January, 10, 1931 Harry Gold sent the Southerner Dupree to the NYPL to steal the library's precious copy with the Swede and Paul as back-up in case Dupree, on his first caper, got the willies. That he did but managed to make a mad dash for the exit without slipping on the sweat flooding out of his pores and onto the floor; library staff were right behind him. But not right enough. An hour after the Southerner's close call  Al Aaraaf  was in Gold's hands.

As Travis McDade, author of The Book Thief: The True Crimes of Daniel Spiegelman, and curator of rare books at the University of Illinois College of Law writes in his new book, Thieves of Book Row: New York's Most Notorious Rare Book Ring and the Man Who Stopped It, Bergquist's pursuit of Al Aaraaf  (he was as anxious to retrieve it as he was to nail the perp) led to the unraveling of the Romm Gang. Significantly, the case spurred libraries across the country to beef up security, which, at the time, was, to put it delicately, in its infancy.

And book theft had been, until this episode, casually treated by the police and lightly prosecuted. Book thieves were considered to be mentally ill, at the mercy of an uncontrollable passion, the "gentle madness" that Nicholas A. Basbanes has written so well about. Book thieves were finally considered to be criminals and, in New York, accommodations at Sing-Sing now awaited the convicted.

As McDade makes clear in this exhaustively researched book - 185 pages of text with twenty-three pages of notes - book theft was nothing new. Its roots stretch back to the mid-nineteenth century when the first public libraries in the U.S. were established, and library theft has always attracted colorful characters. No less so were the rare and antiquarian booksellers who were actively or passively complicit in the traffic in stolen books. Those with a nose for trade history may be startled to see many familiar names from the past and learn that some of those, amongst the most respected dealers in the U.S., were not averse to acquiring books warm to the touch. The rare book trade has always been a capital-intensive, feast or famine business with even the most successful dealers often on the brink of disaster. It's a great passion but a tough way to earn a living. The temptation to acquire books at suspiciously low prices once loomed large and the quest for legitimate bargains remains an ongoing imperative. Idealists who enter the trade are soon disillusioned; purity is for Ivory soap. This is hard commerce.

Thieves of Book Row, published by Oxford University Press, is a scholastic book that wants to be a popular true crime narrative and, to a large extent, it succeeds. There is rough going at first as McDade tries to wrestle the wealth of material into submission and draw us in. The sins of academic writing are difficult to exorcise but McDade, who teaches a class at University of Illinois on Rare Books, Crime & Punishment, soon loosens up, hits his stride, and the story takes off with a delightful dose of wit, a broad splash of color, and rich details and anecdotes.

Example: Adolf Stager, owner, with his son, of the Cadmus Bookshop, routinely and curiously wore his hat and coat at all times while in the shop. Why? He was on disability insurance and not allowed to work so he maintained a full-time facade that he was simply visiting his son at the store in case the authorities dropped by to check on him.

Bandits, rascals and rogues; good guys, scholars, and strugglers; individualists, misfits, and the melancholy: the rare book trade's personnel department never has to recruit, we just show up. The feral bandits have been tamed, if not domesticated, since trade associations emerged in the mid-20th century and established codes of ethics, which even non-association members tend to follow; it's just good business. The fact that book theft is now considered a serious crime with serious consequences has tempered the temptation for stealer and receiving dealer alike. The overwhelming number of rare and antiquarian booksellers are on the square and perhaps the worst that can be said about a dealer's behavior reiterates Chico Marx's reply in A Day At The Races when Groucho asks if he can trust Harpo.

"Sure, he's honest," Chico says, "but you gotta watch him a little."

I love the trade and our cast of characters. And I loved this book, a chronicle of Booktown's  Depression-era mean streets when literary culture met organized crime.
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McDADE, Travis. Thieves of Book Row. New York's Notorious Rare Book Ring and the Man Who Stopped It. New York: Oxford University Press, (June) 2013. First edition. Octavo. xi, [1], 216 pp. Black cloth, gilt-lettered spine. Dust jacket. $27.95.
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Friday, January 4, 2013

Educate! Amuse! In Color! The George M. Fox Collection of Children’s Books

by Alastair M. Johnston


There’s another children’s book show at San Francisco Public Library (through March 10th 2013), but this is the first since 1986 to draw on the library’s own superb resource: the George M. Fox Collection of Children’s Books.

The collecting of children’s books is a relatively modern phenomenon. There are great collections at Princeton (Cotsen Collection), in Toronto (Osborne Collection), Oxford (Opie Collection), UCLA, NYPL (Schatzki Collection) and in Florida (the Baldwin Library), that I know of, but the Fox Collection is remarkable, not only for its breadth but also for the condition of the books.

George Fox Sr was an executive at Milton Bradley and when they acquired the publishing firm of McLoughlin Brothers of New York, they didn’t want the firm’s archives and decided to dump them. Fox & another executive split them. The archives contained file copies of all their publications including a large cache of books by British publishers that were sent to them for consideration for republishing (or they may have been acquired to see what the competition was up to and ultimately to pirate them). They also contained the original woodblocks for some books as well as related ephemera. The original artwork that survived is at the American Antiquarian Society in Worcester, Mass. Fox added to the collection and gave over 2000 children’s books to the library in 1978. The current exhibition (the first since 1978) features over eighty examples of 19th-century color printing, especially color wood engraving and chromolithographs. Early hand-colored images are included as well. Highlights include “toy” and “moveable” books; work from the shop of Edmund Evans (who published all of Kate Greenaway's works) and many examples of fine British chromolithography from the firms of Thomas Nelson & Sons, Frederick Warne, Dean & Son and George Routledge & Sons.

McLoughlin Brothers’ motto “Educate and Amuse” marks an important turning point because, prior to the mid-nineteenth century, children’s books tended to be rather tedious and more about indoctrinating kids in good behavior than having fun. Catherine Sinclair’s Holiday House, 1839, is generally considered the first book written for children that does not have a built-in guilt-trip.

Tastes change over time also. The British books in the collection are sometimes marked up with alterations for the American market, or editorial comments. The Little Pig’s Ramble from Home, which is a personal favorite, has “Not much liked, very ordinary,” penciled on it. This is one of the titles that has survived elsewhere too and the Baldwin copy can be read on line at the childrenslibrary.org. In The Little Pig’s Ramble, Jack Pig puts on airs (a wig and top hat) and sets off to explore the world, only to be confronted with a pork butcher! Moral: Stay home if you know what’s good for you!

The books were often published in uniform series like “Uncle Buncle’s” or “Grandmama Easy's” and if the title was well-known it might generate sequels, as Ruth McGurk pointed out in her essay on the Fox Collection: “They are shameless in putting out sequels The Cock Robin story is spun into The Sad Fate of Cock Robin, Sick Robin and his Kind, Nurse Jenny Wren, Death & Burial of Cock Robin, Cock Robin Alive & Well Again and Mrs Dove’s Party. In the latter the guilty sparrow is punished by social ostracism.
And though he hopped in quite bold and undaunted,
He found not a bird that in kindness would greet him.”

He shoulda stayed in Las Vegas. Above is a spread from an 1850s book with hand-colored wood engravings: Mama Lovechild’s [sic] Life & Death of Cock Robin, published by McLoughlin Bros in New York from stereotyped plates.


Not on display is a personal favorite: the giant hen in Learning to Count: One, Two, Buckle my Shoe (by Augustus Hoppin, New York, Hurd & Houghton, ca 1870), but it is in the collection should you choose to explore it.


The books were advertised as cheap, colorful (some printed in ten colors) and above all avoiding vulgar sentiments. The big guns of children’s book illustration, Randolph Caldecott, Kate Greenaway and Walter Crane emerged in the late Victorian era and are well-represented in the collection. There’s even a Caldecott sketch “in the style of Greenaway.” As McGurk pointed out, “Walter Crane has a bent for whimsical detail.” She points out the Wedgwood bowls in the Three Bears rather luxe kitchen, labeled “Ursus Major, Ursus Minor, and Ursus Minimus”! Caldecott also wrote to Scribner's (who legally imported his books) complaining about the garish colors in the pirated editions of his books from McLoughlin and warning readers not to accept the cheap knock-offs.


Short but sweet, Four Footed Favourites by Mrs Surr, published by Nelson & Sons in London, and illustrated by Hector Giacomelli, appeared in the 1880s. The recently digitized SFPL copy can be read on the Internet Archive site.


The SFPL copy of Comic Insects is also found there. It has anthropomorphism reminiscent of Tenniel’s Caterpillar in Alice (and of course Grandville), but above all it has spectacular color printing from chromolithography, including gold (above, which is very tricky to achieve). Published by Frederick Warne, ca 1872, it was written by the Rev F A S Reid, illustrated by Berry F Berry, engraved by Dalziel Brothers and printed from plates made by Kronheim & Co.


Aunt Louisa’s Magic Modeller (London: Frederick Warne & Co., ca 1881) is a paper toy you cut out to build a replica of the Tower of London. These paper toys were very popular in France & Germany also and make the child a participant in the project rather than a proprietor.


More elaborate toy books include Six Mysterious Pictures from Chaos: affording great amusement and intense surprise among children and their little friends (London: Dean & Sons, ca 1878). Such moveable books inspired the Surrealists in their game of Exquisite Corpse. The show is edifying, and also amusing.

Laura E. Wasowicz, Curator of Children's Literature from the American Antiquarian Society, will discuss the history of McLoughlin Brothers (1858–1950), and their role as producers of color picture books in America. The lecture will be held in the Koret Auditorium of the Main Library, on Saturday, January 5th, at 2 p.m.
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Of Related Interest:

Draw Me A Story: Collecting Children's Book Illustrations.

A Movable Book Feast: The World's Greatest Collection Comes To Auction.

Movable Books Pop Up At Smithsonian.

Dean & Son Movable Books and How To Date Them.
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Thursday, June 28, 2012

Bring Me The Head Of St. Lawrence Of Rome, Patron Saint Of Librarians

By Stephen J. Gertz


Martyrs roasting on an open fire,
Larry's last words bravely won:
Though it's been said many times many ways,
"Stick a fork in me, I'm done."

He's a patron saint of librarians because he sacrificed his life to save Church documents. He's the patron saint of cooks because he knew what it was like to be on the wrong end of a basting brush. And he's the patron saint of comedians because he was dying onstage yet still riffed a wisecrack.

The only Church deacon (of seven) to survive the Emperor Valerian's persecution in 258, St. Lawrence was afterward soon arrested for refusing to turn over Church treasures. By legend he was grilled to death and is said to have had the presence of mind to joke to his torturers, "I'm done on this side; turn me over."

There but for a consonant a myth is born. In the early twentieth century historian Rev. Patrick Healy postulated that the tradition was based upon a simple error. The Church formula for announcing the death of a martyr, Passus est ("he suffered," i.e. was martyred) was mangled, the "P" early lost in transcription, and Assus est - "He roasted" -  became the received truth. Not that Healy's hypothesis was accepted. It threw cold water on St. Lawrence; the faithful prefer the fire.

"When the legend becomes fact, print the legend" (The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance).

"His charred body was claimed by the Christians, and his mummified skull is still in the care of the popes. At the Vatican on the tenth of August every year they expose in its golden reliquary the head of Saint Lawrence that still, in the distorted mouth, in the burned bone of the skull, shows the agony he suffered to defend the archives of the popes" (Maria Luisa Ambrosini and Mary Willis, The Secret Archives of the Vatican. New York: 1996, p. 27).

Another apocryphal story, by way of Father Jacques Marquette, is that St. Lawrence inspired the classic Julie London hit tune Cry Me a River before being beheaded (his likely demise).



It is not true, however, that the story of St. Lawrence inspired Peter Greenaway's  1989 cinematic salute to roast human, The Cook, The Thief, His Wife & Her Lover.
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Image of St. Lawrence courtesy of Infolit, with our thanks.
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Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Novelist Richard Brautigan's Brains At Bancroft Library: A Grand Guignol Adventure!

by Stephen J. Gertz

The Bancroft Library.

The papers of 'Sixties Counterculture novelist and poet Richard Brautigan, who, in 1984, committed suicide at his desk with a gunshot to the head, rest in the The Bancroft Library at University of California, Berkeley.

Poet J.J. Phillips, while working in the manuscript division at the Bancroft, rough-sorted Brautigan's papers when the library acquired them. She had no idea that latex gloves and surgical mask would be appropriate to the task.

"I know you know that Brautigan blew his brains out, literally blew his mind," she wrote to poet, novelist and essayist Andrei Codrescu at Exquisite Corpse.  "What you might not be aware of is that he blew his brains out all over pages of his last manuscript... I handled them, archived them, ran my hands over his desiccated brain matter on numerous occasions, though at first I had no idea what I was touching because the Library said nothing and even denied what became all too apparent after I eliminated the other possibilities of what this strange stuff could be (I’m not unfamiliar with such things, and my eyes didn’t deceive me).

"The coroner’s report confirmed my suspicions. I see what’s on these pages as something of a completely different order than coffee stains, cigarette burns, the tomato seeds that Josephine Miles idly spat onto her mss., even drops of spittle, blood, semen, and the like.  With Brautigan, these are the actual physical remnants of brain tissue, blood splatters, and cerebral fluid of the very brain that gave birth to the ideas he had and the words he wrote, now creating its own narrative on top of those words; and of course that act insured he’d never think or write another word."

Thus inspired - or, more properly, driven - she wrote a poem about it. 

Brautigan's Brains
 
Brains blasted there
upon the page
gray matter gobbed
blood of the poet congealed
this grotesque palimpsest
last words concealed
beneath the blood
shattered neurons
glial cells unglued
glopped, splattered

A text of rage coagulated
there upon the page.

Axons impel thought to take
that fatal fiery leap
across synapse into act
fiction into fact.

Atoms smash against the skull
the neural net tattered warp and woof
the brain that strings the words extruded
globbed, fragmented, spattered
last words occluded by the final proof

The text of rage coagulated
there upon the page.


It will come as no surprise to those who knew him that the late Peter Howard of Serendipity Books in Berkeley, CA was in the middle of all this.

"Peter sold the papers to TBL, and even he was a bit dodgy when I asked him about it." she wrote to Booktryst. "When Peter sold the typescript, he said he was going to make TBL buy one whether they wanted to or not." (Pure Peter).

He may have been dodgy then but it didn't prevent Peter Howard from later validating the story by literally putting his imprimatur on it.

"Some years ago," Phillips told me, "Peter sold a limited edition signed typescript of this poem [ten copies], printed over a photo of Brautigan’s face, with the title Apoptosis: or Brautigan’s Brains" [2002]. He later published her poem Nigga in the Woodpile (2008).

And what does the Bancroft Library think about the situation?

"I get the sense," she continued,  "that even now they don’t want people to know what’s on those mss. pages (to my knowledge, the catalog description doesn’t mention this, or didn’t when I last saw it a long time ago) because their attitude was so squirrely and obfuscatory when I began asking questions, which is why I was driven to call the coroner, then send for the coroner’s report (ghastly, a tragic death).

"TBL was (is?) bent on denying the fact of what is undeniably there.  I honestly don’t understand why they wouldn’t either encase those specific pages in mylar or remove them for safekeeping and substitute photocopies.  This for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that I don’t think your average literary researcher accessing the ms. would be thrilled to learn that he or she had been unknowingly fingering somebody’s brain matter...What about possible pathogens?  What if he had Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease?"

Anyone wishing to go trout fishing in the Brautigan papers at the Bancroft Library may first wish to don waders and elbow-length surgical gloves. Or a Hazmat suit.
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Mille grazie to J.J. Phillips.

Brautigan's Brains reprinted with the kind permission of the author.

A tip o' the hat to Andrei Codrescu.
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Of related interest:

Novelist Richard Brautigan's Unrecorded One Day Marriage Certificate Surfaces.
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Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Unicorn Recipe Discovered In Lost Medieval Cookbook Found In British Library

By Stephen J. Gertz

Detail of a unicorn on the grill in Geoffrey Fule's cookbook, England,
mid-14th century (London, British Library, MS Additional 142012, f. 137r).

"Taketh one unicorne," marinade with cloves and garlic, roast over an open fire, and serve.

So begins a recipe found in a long-lost 14th century medieval cookbook recently discovered in the British Library.

"We've been hunting for this book for years," said professor Brian Trump of the Medieval Cookbook Project. "The moment I first set my eyes on it was spine-tingling."

A lady bringing the unicorn's head to the table
(London, British Library, MS Additional 142012, f. 137v).

It is believed that the cookbook was compiled by Geoffrey Fule, Royal Chef to Philippa of Hainault, wife of Edward II and Queen of England 1328 - 1369.

In addition to roast unicorn, recipes for preparing tripe, herring, blackbirds, codswallop (a popular medieval fish stew), and gobsmack (a succulent gravy prepared with the boiled phlegm of royal pheasants), are found within the lushly illuminated manuscript. 

Scholarship strongly suggests that Fule's recipe for blackbirds forms the  basis for the traditional English nursery rhyme, "Sing a song of sixpence / A pocket full of rye / Four and twenty blackbirds / Baked in a pie."

The remains of the unicorn
(London, British Library, MS Additional 142012, f. 138r).

"Taketh one unicorne..."

But from whereth?

House of Meats, Tampa, FL.

Booktryst  made inquiries regarding  unicorn meat  to a sample  of American  purveyors  of fine animal protein.

House of Meat, Hamilton, NJ.

"We don't get as many calls for it as we used to," said one. "Fans appear to have taken it on the hoof because of PETA and pressure from the unicorn lobby," he continued. "It's unfortunate because, when braised, unicorn falls off the bone and is really quite tasty, a festival on the tongue. And when it hits the colon it's carnival time. It's cutting-edge carne, a fantasy come true for carnivores with intestinal fortitude."

The Meat House, all over the place.

 "Being on the Apocryphal Species Act list hasn't helped matters," an anonymous dealer, who wishes to remain under the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service's radar, said. "I've tried very hard to imagine smuggling one in but, no matter what the hallucinogen, I can't. The Dream Police at work.

"It's weird," he went on, "because even though it's impossible to get a hold of a unicorn, tricorns are a dime a dozen.

"Have you ever had tricorn chowder?"
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Read the full story at the British Library here. It was originally posted on April 1, 2012. Draw your own conclusions. 

Illuminated images courtesy of the British Library, with our thanks.

 Apologies and thanks to the Homes of Meat for the images.
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N.B.: The Law Offices of Codswallop & Gobsmack are pleased to announce the expansion of their practice to include two new partners, and will henceforth be known as Codswallop, Gobsmack, Hornswoggle, & Hoosegow.
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Tuesday, February 7, 2012

A Not-So-Great Gatsby


Today's guest blogger is Howard Prouty of ReadInk.

by Howard Prouty

A first edition of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s 1925 masterpiece The Great Gatsby, with its original dust jacket, meets anybody’s definition of a big-ticket item.   Copies today (and there ain’t many) run in the neighborhood of $125,000 to $200,000, depending on the condition of the jacket.  Nice neighborhood.

Courtesy of Peter Harrington Rare Books.

The price-points on Gatsby illustrate what all collectors and dealers in modern first editions know: It’s the Jacket, Stupid.  Copies of the most desirable books “in jacket” are often priced ten (or more) times higher than their naked counterparts -- and many vintage modern firsts, especially pre-WWII titles, are difficult-to-impossible to find today with their original jackets in non-tattered condition.  It’s small supply-vs.-big demand, and the resulting prices would choke your horse, if you could still afford a horse.

But take Gatsby’s gorgeous, Francis Cugat-designed paper wraparound out of the equation, and things cool down considerably: several quite decent (i.e. not falling-apart) copies of the first edition sans jacket are available for a mere $1,200 to $1,500.  It’s not rocket science: the jacket is rare, but the book is not.  The first printing of Gatsby, after all, produced a quite respectable 20,870 copies, of which many thousands are no doubt still extant.  Like this one, for instance - still extant, but practically on life-support:


Now, make no mistake: this is a gen-u-wine first edition of The Great Gatsby.  It meets all the textual points (“sick in tired” and the rest of it).  But it’s also an utter horror, having been degraded over its lifetime into a condition that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy’s bankbook.  Like Keith Richards, when you gaze upon it you just have to shake your head and marvel that it’s still kicking around at all.

O Gatsby, poor Gatsby!  How many things are wrong with thee?  Let me count the ways:

For starters, it was once book #32395 in the “Readers’ Library” (i.e., rental library) of a major Los Angeles department store - the Broadway, at 4th & Hill Streets - a fact boldly advertised by that lavender-colored printed label plastered onto its front cover.   (The little swastikas at the corner are a nice decorative touch, albeit a little jarring to the modern post-Hitler eye.)

Also, the book is damn close to falling apart, thanks to careless (or maybe just excessive) handling by the dozens (hundreds?) of people through whose occasionally grubby mitts it passed, for who knows how long before the store decided to retire it.  The binding is shot, the corners are mashed and frayed, the gilt lettering on the spine has worn away, a couple of pages have come loose, the edges of the pages are soiled and dog-eared, and worst of all (at least from a bibliographic p.o.v.), the title page is completely gone.

And there’s yet another goddamn label in the thing, a really big one that covers most of the front pastedown endpaper, and lays out all the rules and procedures of the Broadway’s book-rental operation:


 This tells us perhaps the saddest news of all about this sad, sad book, the greatest indignity visited upon this particular copy and, by extension, its author (in capital letters and underlined, no less): THIS IS A ONE-CENT-A-DAY BOOK.  That’s right, folks: in the judgment of some department-store “librarian,” The Great Gatsby, one of our country’s great literary treasures, didn’t even qualify as a Two-Cent-a-Day Book.  We can only hope that Scott Fitzgerald himself never wandered into the Broadway’s Renters’ Library, while Zelda (or maybe Sheilah Graham) was downstairs buying a pair of nylons or something, to observe the value that one of L.A.’s finest retail establishments had placed on his masterpiece.  That could drive you to drink, for sure.

I mean, seriously: how pathetic can one copy of one Great Book possibly be?

And yet, and yet...There is one more thing:

Let me quickly extrapolate an interesting number, based on that relatively el cheapo $125K copy of Gatsby mentioned above.  If the book itself in that instance (in “Very Good to Fine” condition, per its seller) is worth, say, $5,000, then that would value the dust jacket itself at $120,000.  (Such are the vagaries of the marketplace that this could all change tomorrow -- for one thing, if somebody buys that copy, then the bargain-basement price abruptly becomes $190,000 - but for purposes of demonstration, bear with me.)  The complete jacket measures about 17-1/4 x 7-1/2 inches - that’s 125 square inches of paper, printed on one side only, worth about $960 per square inch.  Now hold that thought, as we turn our attention back to our poor, trashed-up, ex-rental library copy of Gatsby.

Because still another imprecation was visited upon this miserable book, a not-uncommon rental-library procedure of the day: affixed to the front endpaper is a printed blurb about it, helpfully informing the prospective renter-reader that “Here is a novel, glamorous, ironical, compassionate -- a marvelous fusion into unity of the curious incongruities of the life of the period - which reveals a hero like no other...[etc.].”  Then, as now, you see, the best way to get a quick fix on what a book was about, and a sense of whether it would be worth your time and money, would be to quickly skim the blurb...on the jacket. The dust jacket...


 Hey!  Holy Cow! That’s exactly where the rental-library people got that blurb - clipped it right out of the rear panel of the dust jacket.  That’s right: it’s a nice big piece of that $120,000 dust jacket! A 4-1/4-inch by 6-1/8-inch piece, to be exact - wow, now I do need my calculator!  Oh my gosh, that’s a full 20.8% of the original jacket!  Let’s see now, $120,000 times .208 equals...$24,960! Yowzah!  Jackpot!  And if somebody snaps that $125K copy up (lessee, $185,000 times .208...!!!!)

Well, not exactly.  Even a dope such as myself, who’s only been in the book trade for about as long as Fitzgerald had left to live, post-Gatsby (hmmm...) - and has never been lucky enough to have a real Gatsby pass through his hands - knows that ain’t how it works.  It’s hardly even kosher to call this a “partial jacket,” so far, far away from its original, desirable, collectible condition has it been carried by its cumulative hands of fate.  And banish any thoughts of “restoration.” Nothing short of resurrection would bring this one back.  So all that stuff about square inches, doing the math, etc.? Just kidding!

This is all the more painful because right smack in the middle of that clipped-out-and-glued-down blurb is the incontrovertible evidence that this 20.8% was, in fact, once part of an original first edition Gatsby jacket.  Just as the book’s text conforms to all known points, so too does the blurb copy display the one thing that readily identifies a first-issue jacket: the capital “J” over-printed on the lower-case “j’ in “jay Gatsby.”  If this is the most famous and iconic dust jacket in literary history (and it is), then that is undoubtedly the most famous dust jacket typo of all time.


So what we have here is that most maudit of all things in the rare book universe: an uncollectable copy of a highly collectable book.   One hears it (and says it) over and over and over again: condition, condition, condition.  You’ll understand this if you’ve ever watched a serious collector (or dealer) pick up a book, turn it over and around and upside down, hold it close to their face and squint at it... and then say something along the lines of “yeah, it’s pretty nice, but too bad about that little smudge at the bottom of page 57 [or slight fading of the spine, or itsy-bitsy tear at the bottom of the rear jacket panel, or whatever].”

On your better books, the consequences of such minor blemishes can often be measured in the hundreds or even thousands of dollars.  Although this might seem silly to the uninitiated, I assure you it’s nothing to be sneezed at - but if you must sneeze, for God’s sake turn your head away from the book!

So as a bookseller, what am I to do with this poor, put-upon first edition of The Great Gatsby, which might just be The Worst Copy in the World?  To sell it, I have to price it -- but what justifies a price (any price) for a book that, by any reasonable standard pegged to its physical condition, should’ve been trashed years ago?  Truth be told, if it hadn’t been a Gatsby I’d have probably done just that myself.  But it is. 

OK, I admit it: I’m a romantic.  In fact, when I hold this book in my hands, I can’t help but think of Scott and Zelda themselves: beautiful, charmed, talented . . . yet ultimately brought to ruin by illness, drink, disillusionment and failure.  Although Fitzgerald’s place as a titan of American literature now seems secure, as does the stature of Gatsby itself as both a (some would say the) Great American Novel and an absolute superstar in the rare-book world, none of this was the case during his lifetime.

The book’s initial sales were tepid, and in retrospect it seems startlingly clear that his career had already peaked.  His remaining decade and a half was essentially a long downward spiral, during which his creative wellspring was inexorably smothered by financial worries, Zelda’s mental health issues, booze and Hollywood.  He completed just one more novel after Gatsby - 1934's Tender is the Night - and by the time he drank himself to death in California, at age forty-four in 1940, all his major work was out of print and his reputation was in the cellar.  The public, to the extent that they still thought about him at all, had mostly written him off as a has-been.  (Posthumously, of course, he’s done much better.)


So because of all that, it’s easy for me to find reasons to love this particular copy of a book I love anyway, in spite of -- or maybe because of -- the very fact that it’s been so ill-treated by everybody else.  For instance, I love how, with the loose binding and missing title page, the book falls open directly to the dedication page, which reads “Once again, to Zelda.”  I also love that one of those long-ago readers was moved to mark this particular passage on page 134, with a simple pencil line in the margin:


But mostly, I guess, I just groove to the whole metaphorical weltschmerz of the poor thing -- so achingly evocative of the lack of respect and appreciation that hounded its author for too much of his too-short life.  

And finally, I find it sublimely heartbreaking that this wonderful, moving work - this towering achievement of American literature - could ever have been just another One-Cent-a-Day Book.
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If you find yourself anywhere near Pasadena this weekend, and would like to pay your respects to this Not-So-Great Gatsby, please come by my booth (#505) at the 45th  California International Antiquarian Book Fair.  I’ll be giving it pride of place, highlighted and headlined as “The Worst Copy in the World.”  And because I am, after all, a bookseller, there’ll be a price-tag on it, too, if you want to take it home with you.  Don’t mind me, though, if I shed a little tear as it walks out of my life.
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All images, except where noted otherwise, are courtesy of ReadInk, with our thanks; a special thank you to Howard Prouty for this delightful contribution (SJG).

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Librarian by Day, Nude Butler by Night

by Stephen J. Gertz

Russell Davies, a 28-year old a librarian at Hartshill Library, in Nuneaton, Warwickshire, U.K., assists the bookworm in need while fully clothed. By night, he assists on the domestic front serving the needs of ladies seeking a little fun.

He's The Naked Butler.


In a great example of pretzel-logic, he says that he knew he could be an excellent nude butler after he trained as a wrester at the Ultimate Pro Wrestling Training School here in the U.S.A. We thus learn why the P.G. Wodehouse characters got along - Jeeves never put the Tilt-a-Whirl Crossbody Press on Bertie. It just isn't done.

It's the skimpy outfits, Russell says.

He, until recently, kept his nocturnal vocation a secret from his boss and colleagues at the library.

“They were all pretty shocked. But it was fine. I haven’t told my parents what I do. I think my mum wouldn’t like it but they live Spain.”

He works ladies "hen" parties, which he says can get pretty wild. Let's face it: the Dewey Decimal System is not for kids. Older women are generally the randiest. "Sometimes the women will be screaming. They do try to pinch your bum."

His girlfriend doesn't mind. She's Jemma Palmer, aka Gladiator Inferno, a wrestling star. It is unclear whether she serves as Sergeant-At-Arms while Russell services. Someone's got to referee when the ladies put the Body Avalanche on him.

Next time you visit your local library, should the Reference Desk librarian sport a mohawk and split the seams of his Keep Calm and Carry On T-shirt, do not be alarmed. Be good.  You may be served champagne. Be rude and it's the Leapfrog Body Guillotine for you.

"Hat's off to Russell," a library patron exclaims. "I've hired
him for my Friday night book club. Fine condition in handsome
binding, and a colophon that won't quit.

"And the book isn't bad, either."

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Full story at Sunday Mercury.

Thanks to LISNews for the lead.
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Image courtesy of Buff Naked Butlers, with our thanks.
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Monday, January 23, 2012

Public Amusements in Paris With Gustave Doré

by Stephen J. Gertz


A remarkable and very important suite of lithographs from early in DorĂ©’s career, Les diffĂ©rents publics de Paris contains twenty-one original lithographs, superbly colored by a contemporary (publisher’s?) hand.


The series depicts Parisian society at the circus, the theater, the public garden, at magic performances, a puppet show in the park, a reading in the imperial library (this is a particularly famous Doré image), and at the amphitheater of the medical school, among other settings.`


“These twenty lithographs are studies of massed humanity, ranging from audiences at the great Parisian theaters to the crowds at a wrestling match or a Punch and Judy show. Without exception they are striking in conception and fertile in detail... each of DorĂ©’s scenes is based on close observation, and the album provides valuable testimony to the manners of the day."


“[‘Les Travaux d’Hercule’] and the more imposing albums which followed [Les diffĂ©rents publics de Paris] remain too little known even among DorĂ©’s ardent admirers because of their great scarcity. They show the artist at his most engaging, bearing witness to a lively sense of humor, now broad, now sophisticated, which was muted in his later illustrations” (Ray p. 327).


“All three of these lithographic albums are rare. Most copies were long ago taken apart to sell the lithographs individually.


"There are also full-color versions of the MĂ©nagerie and Publics, and those are particularly desirable” (Dan Malan,  Gustave DorĂ©, Adrift on Dreams of Splendor. A Comprehensive Biography and Bibliography).


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DORÉ, Gustave. Les différents publics de Paris. [Paris]: Au Bureau du Journal Amusant, n.d. [1854]. Lithographic printed title and 20 contemporary hand-coloured lithographic plates, all mounted on stubs. Oblong quarto (262 x 350 mm.).

Ray: Art of the French Illustrated Book 241; Rahir: Bibliothèque de l’amateur, 404; Beraldi VI.30; Leblanc 90.
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Images courtesy of Ars Libri Ltd., with our thanks.
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Thursday, January 19, 2012

Hollywood Goes to the Library

by Stephen J. Gertz

The staff of the Greene County Public Library of Ohio has put together an entertaining video montage of library scenes from film and television. 

It includes footage from Seinfeld, Sesame Street, Disney's Beauty and the Beast, The Golden Girls, No Man of Her Own, The Shawshank Redemption, Philadelphia Story, Philadelphia, Harry and the Hendersons, Party Girl, Ghostbusters, Clean Shaven, Phineas and Ferb, The Music Man, Mr. Bean, Shadow of a Doubt, The Breakfast Club, Only Two Can Play, Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay, Star Trek: The Animated Series, Twisted Nerve, The Man Who Never Was, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, JAG, The FBI Story, Wings of Desire, Se7en, Harry Potter, With Honors, All the President's Men, and Strike Up the Band. 

Check it out:



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With thanks to our friends at LISNews for the lead.
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Friday, December 9, 2011

Modern Books Are Not Edible: A Farewell To Bookworms

by Stephen J. Gertz

The Bodleian Library.

"Great is bookishness and the love of books."

So declares Augustine Birrell (1850-1933), whose In the Name of the Bodleian and Other Essays was published in London by Elliot Stock and in New York by Charles Scribner's Sons in 1905.

The sentence opens his essay on Bookworms in the Bodleian Library and wherever books are shelved, chewed, and digested. He refers not to those of us who live inside of books but Anobium pertinax, that other lover of books. We read 'em, they eat 'em.

They're one of the many enemies of books cited by Birrell in his overview of printer and Caxonist William Blade's The Enemies of Books, published in London by Elliot Stock in 1902.

After upbraiding  the Charity Commissioners of the Bodleian  for selling off books that were water-logged and rotten, and declaring these public servants to be of a lower order of primate and  sworn enemies of books, he begins As the Worm Squirms, a squiggly science travelogue including  the care  and feeding of a bookworm on the edge of darkness, hitchhiking in Hebrew, an ill-fated bookworm's meeting of the Central Pacific and Union Pacific Railroads, and a doomsday eulogy for the cruel fate of the bookworm in the modern world:

From: The Enemies of Books by William Blades.

"By the side of these anthropoid apes, the genuine bookworm, the paper-eating insect, ravenous as he once was, has done comparatively little mischief.  Very little seems known of the creature, though the purchaser of Mr. Blades’s book becomes the owner of a life-size portrait of the miscreant in one, at all events, of his many shapes.  Mr. Birdsall, of Northampton [Birdsall's of Northampton, bookbinders*], sent Mr. Blades, in 1879, by post, a fat little worm he had found in an old volume.  Mr. Blades did all, and more than all, that could be expected of a humane man to keep the creature alive, actually feeding him with fragments of Caxtons and seventeenth-century literature; but it availed not, for in three weeks the thing died, and as the result of a post-mortem was declared to be Aecophera pseudopretella

"Some years later Dr. [Richard] Garnett, who has spent a long life obliging men of letters, sent Mr. Blades two Athenian worms, which had travelled to this country in a Hebrew Commentary; but, lovely and pleasant in their lives, in their deaths they were not far divided.  Mr. Blades, at least, mourned their loss.  The energy of bookworms, like that of men, greatly varies.  Some go much farther than others.  However fair they may start on the same folio, they end very differently.

 "Once upon a time 212 worms began to eat their way through a stout folio printed in the year 1477, by Peter Schoeffer of Mentz [Novellae constitutiones, etc.?]. It was an ungodly race they ran, but let me trace their progress.  By the time the sixty-first page was reached all but four had given in, either slinking back the way they came, or perishing en route.  By the time the eighty-sixth page had been reached but one was left, and he evidently on his last legs, for he failed to pierce his way through page 87.  At the other end of the same book another lot of worms began to bore, hoping, I presume, to meet in the middle, like the makers of submarine tunnels, but the last survivor of this gang only reached the sixty ninth page from the end.  Mr. Blades was of opinion that all these worms belonged to the Anobium pertinax

"Worms have fallen upon evil days, for, whether modern books are readable or not, they have long since ceased to be edible.  The worm’s instinct forbids him to ’eat the china clay, the bleaches, the plaster of Paris, the sulphate of barytes, the scores of adulterants now used to mix with the fibre.’  Alas, poor worm!  Alas, poor author!  Neglected by the Anobium pertinax, what chance is there of anyone, man or beast, a hundred years hence reaching his eighty-seventh page!"

Cue Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings, his mournful, heartrending elegy now, unfortunately,  so stale from over-exposure in movies, particularly Platoon, that it could fairly be re-titled, Sad Schmaltz for Bad Violins.

Anobium pertinax aka Bookworm, RIP in open casket.

Having thrown a rose on the coffin of Anobium pertinax, Birrell ends his anti-encomium to the pest of all pulp with a parting shot at other book vermin:

"Time fails me to refer to bookbinders, frontispiece collectors, servants and children, and other enemies of books; but the volume I refer to is to be had of the booksellers, and is a pleasant volume, worthy of all commendation.  Its last words set me thinking; they are:

"’Even a millionaire will ease his toils, lengthen his life, and add 100 percent to his daily pleasures, if he becomes a bibliophile; while to the man of business with a taste for books, who through the day has struggled in the battle of life, with all its irritating rebuffs and anxieties, what a blessed season of pleasurable repose opens upon him as he enters his sanctum, where every article wafts him a welcome and every book is a personal friend!’"

Particularly on rye, with mustard. After ingestion, the personal friend is chased by a snifter of brandy, then, after digestion, an exegesis is excreted and read for prophecies. I anthropomorphically refer to Lord Wriggle of Wessex and his taste for books, his favorites tales, naturally, being The Conquering Worm by Edgar Allan Poe;  The Lair of the White Worm by Bram Stoker; The Worm and the Ring by Anthony Burgess; The Early Worm by Robert Benchley; Eye Worm Flower by Allen Ginsberg; and Dr. J.H. Snoddy's horrific tale of The Worminator - Snoddy's Treatise on Hog Cholera and Swine Plague: Symptoms and Cure Fully Explained: A Complete Worm Exterminator.

True,  swine worms don't eat books but all bookworms are swine. Unless they're human, of course, and thus divine. But if suffering from pica they're definitely pigs, and a tasty book hasn't a prayer.
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BIRRELL, Augustine. In the Name of the Bodleian and Other Essays. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1905. First American Edition. Octavo. 312 pp.
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*The roots of Birdsall of Northampton "stretch back to the early eighteenth century but it was in 1792 that John Lacy's Northampton bindery was acquired by William Birdsall, continuing in his family until 1961...In Birdsall's heyday, Gerring (Notes on Bookbinding, 1899) reported a staff of 250 engaged in making ladies handbags, fancy boxes, and stationary; as well as all types of bookbinding. The firm seemed always ready to experiment and careful records and samples were kept by Richard Birdsall, great-great-nephew of the founder, until he died in 1909...The firm's collection of over 3,000 finishing tools passed to the University of Toronto" (Maggs, Bookbinding in the British Isles II, #262, and #321).
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Tuesday, December 6, 2011

A Regency Home Library Bookcase, 1808

by Stephen J. Gertz


One of 158 hand-colored aquatint plates from:

SMITH, George. A Collection of Designs for Household Furniture and Interior Decoration. London: J. Taylor, n.d. [1808]. Quarto (279 x 220 mm). First edition.

Abbey, Life 71.
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Image courtesy of Christie's, who recently offered this volume, with our thanks.
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Friday, September 30, 2011

The Cure For the Reading Hangover

by Stephen J. Gertz

I had too much to read last night and, boy, do I feel it.

I woke up this morning with a splitting headache. Bleary-eyed, I felt the march of time stomp on my bones in slo-mo, then in a lively polka. I soon felt nauseous and  brought up that which should have stayed down. Because I am compulsive, I had to inspect the remains of the reads, if for no other reason than to find comfort in the remembrance of text past.  I am the Proust of reading drunkards.

If Jackson Pollack had dipped his brushes in cans of liquid type and splattered them on the floor the artistic effect could not have exceeded the psycho-intestinal action-painting before me.

Behold a chunky, deliquescent impasto of ink drips dressing a green font salad of coagulated content on my pile-crushed, 100% genuine polypropylene, tufted living room carpet: 

Two auction house and four rare bookseller catalogs. • Last Sunday's NY Times Travel section because  even though I'm going nowhere reading about Morocco in Winter and the Castles of Moravia beats  a schlep into downtown L. A. • A New Yorker piece from a few weeks ago about a recently murdered Pakistani journalist who knew too much •  A suicide-inspiring insurance claim form for the benefit of Job • A typically prolix note from my dear Aunt Marilyn • Items from Courthouse News Service, i.e. the California Culinary Institute, aka Le Cordon Bleu, is being sued by twenty-one of its recruiters for, essentially, running the school like a used car lot with high-pressure tactics (What's it going to take to get you into this toque?), admitting anyone "as long as they have a pulse"  and, presumably, a carving knife, and offering financial aid that gets the student out of the frying pan and into the fire; "Naked Juice Not as Naked as It Claims," a story that attracted me because I, as many others, prefer my juice in the altogether - full-monty mango nectar, please; and Marlborough Airport Properties claims in Federal Court that President Barack Obama, the U.S. Secret Service and a 44,000 pound truck caused $676,000 in damages to an airport while moving from a Marine helicopter to a limousine to visit the Massachusetts Emergency Management bunker in Framingham last year - just wait until Mitt Romney hears about it, and forget about the others vying for the Republican nomination: it's TruckOne-gate, the Next Big Scandal • The subtitles to the original Swedish-language film adaptation of Flickan som lekte med elden (The Girl Who Played with Fire). I love saying "flickan som lekte med elden" aloud; it reminds me of the adolescent invective I used to invent as I skulked away after angry arguments with my resident elders  • A special-ed teacher in Telford, Stropshire, U.K.. has been fired for threatening to place a lethal voodoo curse on one of her pupils as  punishment for misbehavior.  Amazingly, I had the same  SanterĂ­a priestess-pedagogue  in the second grade in 1958  in Queens, New York City, U.S. and I'm still alive, so far. "What'ya goin' to do, kill me? Everybody dies." • A vegetarian dating website has been reprimanded by advertising watchdogs for having  meat-eating members; their beef is, evidently, legit • My contribution to an anthology entitled Everything You Know About Sex is Wrong because, apparently, in my case, it's true • various and sundry browser flashcards, last but not least: Frank and Louie, the two-faced cat with two first names, has won the Guinness Record for longest-lived two-faced cat • And Heidi, the cross-eyed opossum, has died, according to her zookeepers in Germany.

I know, I know - never mix your texts. It's on page three of The Booktender's Guide to Readology.

I was a wreck reliving overindulgence. Most people have blackouts. I have black-ins; I remember everything and then some, things I've never read and have no desire to do so. I had the D.T.'s, decomposed texts. I had to straighten out, fast. What to do?

I needed a bracer, a good, stiff one. Hair of the dog.

I read the morning paper.

I snapped out of it and into a major depression. Finally, home sweet homeostasis.
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Friday, September 9, 2011

The Smallest Public Library in the United States

by Stephen J. Gertz


It is three feet by three feet by eight feet-four inches. It has 150 books on its shelves. The single light within is solar-powered. It's open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. No librarian is present. It is impossible to get lost in the stacks.

It's a phone booth located in Clinton Corners, NY, the newest branch in the Dutchess County Library system.

Now the smallest library in the United States, the booth, a vintage 1960s English model that was recycled, restored, and converted, is run through a community book exchange. It's motto is "bring a book, take a book."

The early years.

Claudia Cooley, who came up with the idea, said the book booth has already caught the attention of many.

"There's a major curiosity factor," she said. "You know, when you live in the country whenever there's something new to look at, it's very exciting. So the response has been favorable. Again, it gets more books into this part of our town, and like I said, the businesses are excited and that's the main purpose, to build community spirit. I'm really looking forward to unveiling it for the public to use."

There is no room for signage; "Silence" and "No Loitering" are a given. As there are no restroom facilities patrons are advised to plan ahead.


And, because this is 2011, it is the only phone booth library to have its own Facebook page.

Full story with video here.
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Thanks to American Libraries Direct for the lead.
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