Happy holidays!

Just like that, it’s December, and time for this year’s holiday book list. That’s not to say I haven’t been busy the rest of the year. As hoped, my family and I visited Paris again for a couple weeks this fall, and I was able to shop for books as well as catch up with dear friends. The weather was shockingly sunny and H&M featured William Morris patterns (see below).

We visited our old haunts and even made it to the Foire de Chatou — an enormous antiques fair in a Parisian suburb — for an entire day. There were only a handful of booksellers, but between there and in Paris I found some great things, coming soon to another book list when I can find the time to catalogue them!

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For now, I wish everyone happiest of holidays!

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RBMS

Tomorrow morning I’ll be on my way to Iowa City for my first RBMS conference! I look forward to seeing old friends, meeting new friends, and catching up on all things rare-book-and-manuscript related.

To all the attendees who may be reading, thank you, and see you soon! I hope you’ll attend the session on “Spooky Books” sponsored by yours truly. It promises to be an engaging discussion filled not only with stories but also with strategies, i.e., “…how we can potentially use the stories that are told about our libraries and books to engage our patrons, clients, and fans in meaningful ways, drawing those who hunger to be haunted into deeper research or more profound interactions with the items in our collections.” It’s a methodology that applies to bookselling as much as librarianship and I can’t wait to hear everyone’s opinions — and ghost stories!

 

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NYC Book & Ephemera Fair 2017

It was about 1 am when I finally went to sleep Wednesday night, March 8 (more accurately, Thursday morning, March 9) after finishing my last few book descriptions, packing everything just so in plastic bins and boxes, and Tetris-ing everything into our little car for the drive from Philadelphia to NYC. The trip normally takes two hours or less in midday traffic, but Google maps indicated it would take a solid three if not more that weekday morning. So I left promptly at 6 am for my 9:30 load-in – and was still late! On the way a bookseller friend called me at a particularly dangerous Manhattan intersection and I must have been a pretty picture of a zombie yelling at the merging traffic and my speakerphone, “Yes that’s great see you later looking forward to it no don’t worry about what time I have to go PEOPLE ARE CRAZY!”

What did I learn? Don’t schedule load-in so early for a city fair, if you can help it!

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Outside the satellite book fair during set-up on Thursday

As soon as I pulled up to the load-in area outside the venue (St. Ignatius on the Upper East Side), I was greeted by friendly porters who unloaded my car for me. AMAZING! Now all that was left to do was check in at the hotel and park the car. I first went to a garage nearby, but the rate was $50 for the day. The DAY! I lived in NYC long enough to know there are way better options, but I’ve also lived outside of NYC long enough at this point to think I know better and be very, very wrong. I circled a few blocks and ended up in metered parking, much cheaper, but also strictly time-limited to an hour. You can guess where this is going. I got caught up unpacking my books and socializing back at the fair and completely forgot about refilling the meter. I rushed back two hours later to find a bright orange parking ticket on the windshield. The garage would have been cheaper!

So what did I learn? Just pay the garage!

Finally by late afternoon I had beautified my booth, caught up with colleagues, taken a quick look around neighboring displays, and zipped back to the hotel, where I promptly fell facedown onto the bed exhausted. Soon it was time for the Armory show preview, the fanciest of the fair week activities. I swapped my flannel for a blazer and high-heeled it to the Park Avenue Armory. Right at the entrance I ran into David Szewczyk of PRBM and Peter Kraus of Ursus, both former employers, and the Ursus booth in its usual splendor. After chatting with Adam, Olivia, and James Cummins across the aisle, I wandered, starting with the perimeter. The hardest part about the Armory fair is zeroing in on items that I can buy now, and not getting distracted by all the museum-worthy books and manuscripts on display. Here’s where my art history past and bookseller present come into conflict. It’s good the fair is more than one day, because it’s really too large to take in at once and still talk to friends and make good purchases. I can’t say I have totally mastered this yet! The preview was quite busy and the wine was flowing – but not for me, as I headed back uptown early to rest before my big debut.

Thursday morning, March 10, began in the dark. Doors of St. Ignatius were set to open at 6 am to bleary-eyed book dealers in search of bagels, coffee, and pre-fair buys, and 8 am to the public. I had planned to walk from the hotel to St. Ignatius, but opted for a cab as soon as I stepped outside into the cold. My cabbie informed me a blizzard was coming, which was no surprise. We got to the church a few minutes early so I asked if I could stay in the heated car a few minutes longer, time we spent talking about his unusual schedule of 1 am – 1 pm to catch the bar crowds; where to get the best coffee and croissant near my hotel (Yura on Madison – I tried it the next day – delicious!); and how our country is doomed.

The satellite book fair, thankfully, was the opposite of doomed. Despite the weather, we saw good foot traffic all day. I caught a glimpse of a line out the door in the morning, and I was busy in my own booth from opening to close. Most of what I sold was visually striking in some way and/or unique. I had a few inexpensive publisher’s bindings front and center which I brought thinking the fair would be the perfect venue to sell them, but at the end of the day, they were still in my booth, whereas I had sold a pair of 17th-c. broadsides and a large scrapbook of Victorian fashion clippings. Everyone seemed more interested in the rare visual stuff (and, for the most part, the more expensive stuff). Complicated items in foreign languages were less successful.

Overall, I was very happy with the results, and I would certainly do another fair! Thank you to all the friends, librarians, dealers, and former colleagues who visited!

 

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Bonne année!

Very belated Happy New Year! 2017 will be busy. I’m getting ready now for my first book fair…

New York City Book and Ephemera Fair
Friday, March 10, 8 am – 7 pm

Wallace Hall
Church of St. Ignatius Loyola
980 Park Avenue (between 83rd and 84th St.)
New York City

…which means for the next month I’ll be selecting books and manuscripts to bring, cataloguing like crazy, and gathering supplies in preparation for my debut. The rigmarole is somewhat familiar since I’ve manned a few booths over the years working for booksellers at the Armory show, happening simultaneously at 67th St., but it’s very different going solo and having to think of all the little details yourself: among other things, the flame retardancy of tablecloths, which we all must buy fitted to cover our display tables.

I’ve got a million checklists and too little time! C’est la vie.

Along with the frenzy comes the promise of seeing colleagues from faraway places, buying and selling, and being back in NYC for a few days. I’m super excited to be sharing my booth with Edmund Brumfitt Rare Books of London, a longtime friend in the trade.

In other news, I just published my latest list in anticipation of Valentine’s Day (scroll to the bottom of the “Shop Our Catalogues” page). There’s still time to get that esoteric gift you’ve been seeking!

  • libertine short stories in Italian
  • poetry in Provençal
  • an unexpurgated French edition of the Kama Sutra

You’ll find all of these and more.

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New chez nous

Back-to-school season brings back memories of rentrée in Paris, and writing a similarly-timed blog post there last year. Now I’m writing from Philadelphia, PA, new home of Zoe Abrams Rare Books!

We moved back from Paris about a month ago and I just finished my next list of books for sale (stay tuned to the “shop” tab!), gathered from travels in France and further afield, all broadly concerning education: dictionaries, manuals, schools, etiquette, languages, and prize bookplates and bindings awarded to excellent students.

One of the most interesting items has to do with phys ed for 19th-century women and children. Here is the description with a photo I took (not the most graphically exciting, let’s admit it, so I’m adding a couple more photos of other items at the end):

[DAURIAT, Louise]. Discours prononcé par Madame Louise Dauriat, a la séance d’ouverture du Gymnase Civil et Orthopédique, le 6 Juillet 1834. [Paris]: Félix Malteste, [1834].

8vo, 20.4 x 12.8 cm. 16 pp. (small marginal waterstain on one page). Bound in recent marbled boards with printed label pasted onto front cover. Inscribed by the author on the title-page, “Á M. Guyot avocat, de la/ part de l’auteur.”

FIRST EDITION of this speech delivered by Louise Dauriat at the opening of a gymnasium founded by Spaniard Francisco Amoros (1770-1848), who was largely responsible for introducing children’s physical education in France. Mme. Dauriat advocates for the physical education of women as well as men, citing Spartan culture as an example and quoting Plutarch, “Elles faisaient connaître…qu’elles étaient capables de réussir aussie bien que les hommes…” (p. 5). She goes on to suggest that women’s moral education is way too limited, as is their instruction, or at least in extreme disproportion with their capabilities; and their physical education is totally “nulle.” One solution is for mothers to take responsibility for their children’s physical education. Most radically, Dauriat suggests young women should not marry until they have attained “toutes les forces dont elles sont capables” [all of the forces of which they are capable].

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Discours prononcé par Madame Louise Dauriat, inscribed by her (Paris, 1834).

It turns out this pamphlet is not only avant-garde for its time but also quite rare. I was unable to trace it in any library at last search. I dare you to try (let me know)!

Here are some other items you can expect to find in my latest list (PS – in case it wasn’t obvious, EVERYTHING IS FOR SALE! Please write to info@zoethebookseller.com for more information, pictures, or to sign up for the ZARB mailing list, delivering occasional micro-catalogues directly to your inbox).

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Histoire de Pierre le Grand (Rouen, ca. 1895). Inscribed as being awarded to a student for first prize in arithmetic.

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Not the most practical, but certainly the most handy French-English Dictionary (Glasgow, ca. 1900).

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Dernière minute

Yesterday we finally visited Giverny. It’s one of those places that’s been on our must-see list from the start, but we never found time until now, as time is running short. We booked our tickets home for mid-August.

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It was a typical day in and outside Paris, rainy and sunny at short intervals. The leaves in Monet’s garden were big and green and the flowers were planted in lush processions and when we walked around the pond of waterlilies we realized that Monet must have been quite wealthy. (He was.)

The house was crowded with visitors snapping photos, mainly of the big sitting room with replicas of 59 paintings, and in the kitchen, with its blue tiles and long rows of copper pots. Something that didn’t get a lot of attentionIMG_5885 from visitors was the collection of Japanese woodblock prints lining the walls of the other rooms. I was reminded of an exhibit at the Musée Guimet – Miroir du désir – Images de femmes dans l’estampe japonaise – that I saw last week. (Looking for it on the temporary exhibit level of the museum I stumbled into a survey of Araki photographs. There is more than one temporary exhibition level at the Guimet.)

In our last month we’re squeezing in a lot of sightseeing and reading Hemingway, who at one time lived just around the corner from us, while trying to wrap up work obligations. I managed to bid successfully online at a country auction about a month ago but for weeks couldn’t get anyone on the phone who could accept payment or ship my lots to Paris.

Wednesday, June 29

Me [in French]: “Bonjour, I bid at auction on [date] and would like to pay for and collect my lots.”

Auction House: “The person you need to speak to is at an auction. Call back tomorrow.”

Thursday, June 30

Me [in French]: “Bonjour, I bid at auction on [date] and would like to pay for and collect my lots.”

Auction House: “The person you need to speak to is at an auction. Call back tomorrow.”

Me: “Excuse me, do you know what time? Because I tried yesterday and was told to call today.”

Auction House [disgruntled, in French]: “Madame, you can try in the afternoon after 3pm.”

[Another week of similar exchanges, then] Sometime around July 7

Me [in French]: “Bonjour, I bid at auction on [date] and would like to pay for and collect my lots. And I don’t want to pay for the storage fee because I’ve been trying to reach you about this for two weeks.”

Auction House: “You’re calling the wrong number. You need to call the billing department.”

After two or three more phone calls and email exchanges, and seriously considering renting a car to pay and collect in person, I finally telephoned at the right time on the right day and got the right person, who listened patiently to my largely incoherent French and took care of everything at once.

Still on the to-do list: packing. This has posed a particularly nightmarish conundrum. Question: If one wants to send four shelves of books home, wants to track them and receive them in the same condition, but doesn’t care so much about when they arrive, what is the best (cheapest, safest) option? Answer: forget shipping and buy another suitcase, which will cost much less in airline fees than sending five or six pre-paid or personally packed boxes via Colissimo International. The fabled M-bag apparently doesn’t exist anymore, or if it does, no one knows where to get it and more importantly no one knows how to ship it.

So onward we go, barreling back towards Philadelphia with all our accumulated belongings and hoping everything gets there, eventually.

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Library at the Musée Guimet

 

 

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Friends in the Field

Just got a nice shout-out from my friend Dylan Rogers, classicist extraordinaire, on his blog https://dylankrogers.net.

He writes, “I started the month in Paris. This was my first visit to this majestic city, and I explored it with an old friend, Zoe Abrams, who has been there this past year, working for her own bookselling company, Zoe Abrams Rare Books. We had an amazing time exploring book markets, gardens, churches, and food. At the Jardin du Luxembourg, the Fontaine de Medici (1630) was a wonderful way entrée into thinking about modern water-displays…” Indeed it was great to see my old friend and learn about his research (on fountains). Thanks, Dylan!

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Petit déjeuner

Early morning in Paris. Rainwater on little round tables sparkling in the sun at an outdoor cafe; an aproned young woman arranging bouquets of baguettes at the corner boulangerie; a crescendo of buzzing scooters and banging trash trucks (finally the latest strike is over).

In August we are going home to Philadelphia. I’m now working on what will probably be my last list of items for sale before we take off: albums and almanacs. These range from a 19th-century chronicle of a Belgian dining club to a collection of photographic postcards of actresses from the turn of the century. On my way to work this morning, via my kitchen, I began picturing our experience abroad as if I were already back in Philadelphia, sorting through a wunderkammer of memories. Behold the electric tea kettle on the white tile counter. Boil the water for the French press. Open the tiny refrigerator. Smell the leftover Époisse. Rush to the living room window facing the street. Sit at the desk with no drawers.

photo (1)There are many things we will import. The electric tea kettle, for one. My metric postage scale from the Office Depot on rue Monge and my rolling pin from Dehillerin, where Julia Child shopped. Lists of what cheeses and wines we like best, scribbled onto receipts from Androuet and into a booklet from this year’s Salon des vins at Champerret. Souvenir magnets and postcards from Stonehenge, Keukenhof, Lapland, etc. Paper directories for SLAM and ABA, and other ephemera collected at book fairs. A folding linen-backed map of Paris purchased at a flea market near the Opéra metro.

Our Paris has already acquired a mythic quality, like any absurdly great pause from “normal” life, and we haven’t even left yet! (Here’s one of my favorite recordings that perhaps best captures the nostalgic mood around the home office these days.)

Concerning ZARB, I’ve developed a routine suited particularly to life here, where the next bookseller is just around the corner and the next auction is in five minutes. Although the U.S. market is less concentrated, it’s there in force, bien sur — and anyway modern technology means the only real concern with buying internationally is condition and shipping — so ZARB will translate just fine. And, hopefully, we’ll be back someday.

 

 

 

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Upgrading

Well, you may have noticed the new social media icons on the ZARB sidebar. After resisting the internet for several months, this old-fashioned lady finally upgraded to an iPhone. Meaning you will now be inundated with photos of Paris and fantastic finds posted in real time. Pas mal! Find us on Facebook at Zoe Abrams Rare Books, and follow Zoe (and ZARB) @zoethebooksellr on Twitter, Instagram, and Tumblr for the latest!

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That’s Zoe! Just kidding. Photo courtesy of Albertina Museum, Vienna.

 

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Lesson No. 1: Trust Your Instincts

When my parents bought our house, they were the second couple to see it. The first couple went home that night to mull over the work that needed to be done, the long-term costs, the imperfections. When they came back the next morning ready to dive in, they were the second couple to do so: my parents had decided to take it on the spot.

It’s a valuable lesson and one I’m still learning. Yesterday at the Bastille Brocante I spent an inordinate amount of time looking at one lovely book, weighing the cost, condition, imperfections. Today when I went back to buy it, cash in hand, someone (an American!) had beat me to it. Now I’ll have more in the coffers for the Olympia fair at the end of the month but I am sad. Whitney-Houston-singing-“I Will Always Love You”-sad. Why?

1. Wow, great book. Will be missed.

2. It was mine yesterday.

3. I let it get away.

A similar thing happened at auction about a month ago. I was previewing a sale at Drouot that turned out to be utterly boring save for one lot. It wasn’t in the group I went there to see, but the cataloguing was so enticingly brief that I decided to take a look while I was there. Reader, it was a treasure trove. I was lost in space leafing through it until I felt eyes behind me and turned around to face a dealer I see at Drouot ALL THE TIME looking over my shoulder. Right then I knew I had already lost. He could outbid me no problem. Long story short, day of sale, the price kept climbing and I gave up too soon. Always one bid behind. Is this not a metaphor for life?

On the bright side, it appears I am attracted to salable stuff. But the real point here is that the book business takes guts. Or trust. Or however you want to describe wanton spending of time and money with no guarantee of a sale. The risk-return tradeoff can be quite subjective.

So, lesson learned: as far as self-doubt goes, let’s stop that right now. (And, let’s always put things we want on hold.)

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Shelves at the Austrian National Library, Vienna. Or, Aspirations.

 

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C’est ZARB!

A French friend told me that the acronym for Zoe Abrams Rare Books – “ZARB” – is verlan (slang formed by reversing syllables, e.g., l’envers) for “bizarre.” Fitting! The past six months have been a whirlwind of auctions, flea markets, brocantes, book fairs, dealer visits across Europe, and lots of exciting material coming and going here at ZARB, our bizarre little enterprise. With two lists down and a third in the works, I’ve learned a lot. For example, did you know cliché is a printing term? From clicher, to make a stereotype, which is also a printing term meaning a plate made from composed type. I’m not the type to go on pedantically so… never mind.

What is a typical ZARB day like? I go to the office as early as possible, meaning I make coffee in the kitchen and then shuffle to my desk a few feet away. With such a short commute, there’s more time for my favorite activities: searching sale catalogs and, if I find something for a client or inventory, or just if I think it’s worth going, visiting book venues across Paris. Depending on what’s in my email I could be out the door and off to an auction, fair, market, or shop, sometimes with very little notice. Or, I could be at my desk all day cataloguing the material I already have. When I’ve done enough writing and research at home, I take my laptop to the Bibliothèque Nationale, a research palace with excellent vending machines, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a forest in the center of the building, and a movie theater across the plaza.

Since almost the moment we arrived in Paris from New York, my husband and I have been traveling a lot. When we’re in a foreign city, I spend all day at local bookshops or markets. It is really fun but it is also real work! There’s a lot of ground to cover in a short amount of time; I try to look at everything but I buy very selectively. Clothes get dirty, occupational hazard. At the end of each trip, I enter my new inventory in my database and calculate costs. When inventory reaches critical mass, I make a list of items to sell. Of course there are also special books I’m saving on the shelf, but, as a wise colleague once said, “it isn’t a business if you aren’t selling.” To that end I also frequently make offers hors serie.

Most of my routine I learned from working with and watching other dealers, to whom I owe a lot. However every small business is different and I love being on my own schedule. À Paris, mon rêve! The bibliosphere here is incredible. So many bookshops, you could barely visit them all in a year; so many sales, you wish you could be in three places at once; so many catalogs, you could spend days reading them. At some point you have to prioritize and actually sell something to fund the next adventure — which is exactly what I’ll be doing today!

I leave you with this rubber stamp wisdom:

“To be is to do”—Socrates.
“To do is to be”—Jean-Paul Sartre.
“Do be do be do”—Frank Sinatra.

 

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Freud’s waiting room. Sigmund Freud Museum, Vienna.

 

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Inaccessible books in ready-to-wear. Le Bon Marché, Paris.

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Vous êtes ici

Vous Etes Ici

Bonjour tout le monde! We’ve had unbelievably good weather (if a bit chilly) since arriving in Paris two weeks ago, but today is rainy, so I’m trading my sneakers for slippers and catching up on the computer.

The social media silence is also due to my cell phone situation. Being an old-fashioned and irrational type, I resisted acquiring a European plan for my iPhone, insisting instead on using a dinky Nokia I purchased in London eight years ago. It is not a smart phone — more like a walky talky (or, “talkie-walkie,” as the French would say) — but it inspires great nostalgia and wonder amongst friends and strangers. I have no way to post pictures or pithy comments online in real time, and no Google maps to guide me, but I am alive. Post hoc ergo propter hoc?

IMG_0380Armed with only an outdated French pocket dictionary care of my grandmother, and a glossy street map from a bookseller friend back home, I set out to find my fortune. It turns out there are many bookstores in Paris. In fact, there are so many, plus les bouquinistes, and markets, that it’s hard to know where to begin. So I took the train to Lille.

Once a year, in this town just south of the Belgian border, thousands of vendors and millions of visitors converge for one weekend at “the biggest flea market in the world.” I had read about the Braderie last Friday in the morning newspaper distributed in the metro. My French is pas tres bien, but I understood enough to know it was THE PLACE TO BE. I ran to catch a train from Gare du Nord for the opening on Saturday.

The Lilliputians aren’t kidding around. It took an hour to navigate from the Lille Flandres train station to my hotel in the city center; not because I couldn’t access Google maps, but because of the throngs of scouting, peddling, pushing crowds. When I finally parked my belongings in my tiny room with impossible curtains and a stubborn lock, I had to lie down for ten minutes. The U.S. Open was on TV, but the French cameraman had focused at such an angle that the ball was never visible. I gathered my wallet, my phones, and my strength, and ventured outside.

Physiologie du FlaneurThe bookstands were few and far between. Literally, there were many kilometers of vendors. I was distracted, respectively, by sizzling waffles, vintage sherpa coats, and Euro-emblazoned underwear, while looking for the main event. I found it on a little side street near the Port de Paris: two professional booksellers, set up back-to-back, far from the madding crowd. Cautious as usual, I didn’t spend hundreds of Euros on the spot, but I took their business cards and promised in my best French to be in touch about a few titles.

I did buy a book in the designated paper and book showcase lining La Vieille Bourse; I couldn’t resist the cover art on a dictionary of dreams for 5 Euro (interesting subject, too). I also found a stockpile of cartes postales at the stand of a paper dealer near the Parc Jean-Baptiste Lebas. I’ve always loved old pictures, especially black-and-white booklets of postcards with images of locals milling around famous sites. Not the bulky albums with individual cards inserted, but the self-contained, site-specific booklets.

Odd spine stampsOn a codicological note, I spotted some intriguing anomalies, including this test (?) spine (left), gilt-stamped all over in multiple directions. More discoveries pictured below.

Yoga Book

Yoga book from 1955.

Travel Scrapbook

Scrapbook documenting a couple’s trip to Switzerland with their tickets and souvenirs.

Rebus

One of many rebuses punctuating the text of this periodical.

Flea Models

Participants in the Braderie de Lille.

Opera lenses

Opera lenses wrapped in hand-dated papers.

Shop Window with Books

Clothing store or library?

Back home in Paris, la rentrée means fashion week is soon upon us. Books and Brooklyn are the prevailing themes this year. Le Bon Marché, arbiter of style, issued an entire catalogue of Brooklyn-chic clothing and housewares, including sets of glasses from Fishs Eddy selling at a whopping 45 Euro, if I remember correctly. (The catalogue was an insert in a magazine, which, alas, I have since recycled via the very particular French system of multi-colored garbage bins all destined for the same heap). In fact, the department store is currently holding an entire Brooklyn Rive Gauche sale. Meanwhile, Saint-Germain shop windows are filled with stacks of books and brooding models in loose tweeds. If not for the language barrier, you’d think we were locals, non?

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Firsts

Soon I’ll be in Paris, blogging about books and adventures abroad. For my first post, however, here’s a review I wrote in New York City, shortly after returning from the Colorado Antiquarian Book Seminar in Colorado Springs…

On the first day of the Colorado Antiquarian Book Seminar, Terry Belanger stood solemnly in front of our class and commanded us to “follow the rulebook with supine acquiescence.” We were feverishly scribbling collational formulae in our notebooks as he added, “The fact that it is ridiculous is totally irrelevant.” The group let out a communal chuckle and went on copying the ever-expanding equations projected on the wall.

Terry was referring specifically to the Ur-text of bibliography by Fredson Bowers, a rulebook every cataloguer knows and loves to bemoan; but the general idea of “following the rules” served us well throughout the week. The CABS faculty, all authorities on books and bookselling, gave us many rules to work and live by, including: hone in on and own your specialty, find your voice, and identify your ideal customer. Inherent in these directions is the notion that bookselling is an individualistic endeavor; every bookseller has her own way of doing things that may not work for the next guy. Some rules, however, apply across the board, regardless of personal modus operandi: be patient, don’t be a jerk, always look at books closely, and sell, sell, sell.

An economist might envision the CABS microcosm teeming with competitive species chasing the same prey. Au contraire! Booksellers are the first to tell you that each one of us has a niche and our diversity keeps the community alive. Common interest in books unites rather than divides us, or “Amor librorum nos unit,” as the ABAA motto reads. This at least partially explains the astonishing generosity of the CABS faculty, who put their lives on pause for a week to teach potential “competitors” tricks of the trade; and accounts for the twelve separate scholarship funds for CABS students. I received an ABAA scholarship to attend, and will do my very best to pay it forward.

In my childhood home we had a coffee mug with a Far Side cartoon of a frazzled scientist pointing at a formula on a blackboard above the caption, “Einstein discovers that time is actually money.” This revelation won’t be news to any bookseller, but it has new meaning for me as I find myself with more time than money, i.e., being self-employed. No amount of work experience – assisting some of the best dealers in the trade – adequately prepares you for being your own boss. Osmosis only gets you so far. CABS is the missing piece, a boot camp for like-minded people communicating in the same specialized language and helping each other achieve success.

It’s no wonder that dealers at the head of thriving businesses still flock to Colorado Springs for a week of intensive study and conversation with colleagues from across the globe (there was a particularly large contingent of Australians, some of the nicest people I’ve ever met). At CABS, you can ask any question on the subject of books and receive thoughtful answers from some of the greatest minds in the “bibliomundo,” as my classmate Cynthy Buffington calls the community of booksellers, -collectors, and -preservers. There is always more to learn, and adaptability behooves us all.

This year’s guest speakers were Katherine Reagan, Curator of Rare Books and Manuscripts at Cornell, home of the nation’s premier Hip Hop Collection; and Garrett Scott, dealer in obscurities with a focus on “books and pamphlets on dead-end byways of American thought,” including the topics Utopia, doom, sex, and “old weird America.”

Boring, right?

Katherine’s keynote address on “Why Curators Love Booksellers” set a collegial, humorous tone for the week while imparting valuable advice on building relationships with librarians. She also reminded us that scholarship drives institutional collecting, so booksellers should stay attuned to changing tastes. Although Hip Hop culture may not appeal to everyone, no one can honestly deny its cultural significance.

Garrett’s mid-week talk, peppered with slides and anecdotes, made us all grateful to be in the same profession, which he likened to the D.I.T.C. (“Digging in the Crates Crew,” a New York Hip Hop group that made its name sampling old records). Booksellers like Garrett constantly “remix” old material in new ways. As Katherine suggested a couple of days earlier, this might be the best approach ever to long term success in the book business. Our mission as booksellers, should we choose to accept it, is to “rescue forgotten voices,” and retell their stories in such a way as to “make the buyer feel the same emotion you did when you bought the thing” (Garrett). More than one of us cried tears of joy during Garrett’s inspirational, aspirational description of his personal philosophy. I even overheard an esteemed librarian wondering, briefly, why he ever switched sides.

We’ve all heard the old adage, “You must have the cheapest copy, best copy, or only copy” (Bill Reese, et al.). Here’s an additional sampling of pithy advice from the week in Colorado: “Don’t trust, do verify” (Nina Musinsky), “Independence is everything” (Sally Burdon), “Make lists” (Dan DeSimone), and “Don’t mess with the archive” (Steve Smith). Sadly, Nina, Sally, Dan, and Steve all surrendered their CABS lanyards this year. Who can imagine the week without their bonhomie, not to mention Nina’s expertise on early books; Sally’s marketing strategies; Dan’s firsthand tips on selling to libraries; and Steve’s inside scoop on acquisition policy? It’s clear from their rapport in and outside the classroom that the CABS teachers enjoy the seminar just as much as the students, and the four departing faculty will be missed terribly by everyone. Listening to them and Lorne Bair, Brian Cassidy, Terry Belanger, and Rob Rulon-Miller talking shop, you got a sense not only of the group’s command of the book business, but also of their camaraderie, built over time and transactions.

On the last day of CABS many students expressed that they would have difficulty describing the week to people back home. At the closing dinner, John Bell was inspired by his conversation with Lorne to ascend the podium and read “Poetic Terrorism,” by Hakim Bey. “Pick someone at random & convince them they’re the heir to an enormous, useless & amazing fortune…,” he implored. “[They] will perhaps be driven as a result to seek out some more intense mode of existence.” There couldn’t have been a more fitting end to the week. Graduates of CABS share in a vast sum of knowledge and friendship that will enhance both our careers and our lives.

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