It's been a while (& by "a while" I mean maybe 2-3 weeks) since I've hit the Ed McKay, the big independent bookstore here in Greensboro, and I'm noticing slight tremors coming on. Soon, I will be channeling Veruca Salt, stomping my foot, petulantly singing "I want it now, I want it my way." Withdrawal is never pretty. It's probably not a bad thing, though, considering I need to be able to pay my bills (and it's unsettlingly easy to spend that money on books). I tell myself that I have plenty of books left in the house that I've not yet read, and while that should be comforting, it's not quite enough.
The beauty (& draw) of a used bookstore is that you never know what you might find from week to week. And what may be there this week, will most likely NOT be there next (especially if it's the one book you desire over all else). And if you're not vigilant, you'll miss out on SOME great deal - never to be had again (insert dramatic sigh).
I just know that I have missed out. I can feel it in my bones. I am sure that they had, and sold for some nominal price, a first edition Jacob de Zoet or Tinkers or Citrus County. I am POSITIVE that while I was not looking, they mistakingly put a first edition To Kill a Mockingbird on their shelves and some unwitting college student bought it for their upcoming Lit 101 course - it will undoubtedly get highlighted and dog-eared and lose its dust jacket to a coffee (or beer) spill. All because I didn't get there in time to save it.
And I begin to wonder where this obsession comes from. I mean, I didn't always covet books (not like this). Even as I was learning to print and bind my own, I only sought out books with interesting bindings - not so much to collect, but to recreate.
I think it wasn't until I started working at a library that I truly saw the value of the book form. I would work at the front desk and people, going through one transition or another, would bring in boxes of books to donate. I'd thumb through these books and find bits of memorabilia tucked into the pages - tickets to movies from the 80s, flattened flowers, airplane ticket stubs to Jamaica and France - even notes in the margins ("Sucks for Shitake," next to a recipe for stirfry). I began to look at books as mementos - as objects with a history and a different kind of value.
I was known to reserve the oddest, most torn up books, in hopes of rebinding them. I would give these books a second chance. In one month's time, I had collected enough of these books to fill a six-foot long shelf in my study. Of those books, a few got rebound then donated back to the library to sell. Who knows where they are now. Some are still awaiting their second chance (now on a smaller shelf).
I still thumb through used books, looking for the odd little bookmark someone left when they were interrupted and had to put the book down. (I've even been known insert my own little notes/bookmarks into books, then put them back on the shelves at the library or bookstore). But mostly, now, I look for the edition number and print run. I look to see if the book is signed. I look for damage, and if found, instead of putting it into my basket to take home to repair, I slide it back onto the shelf - for a nobler person whose priorities are to simply read the book, nothing more.Labels: anxiety, book collecting, first editions, used bookstores