Four Modes of Book Collecting

If I have the book collector's gene—the gene that produces what Nicholas A. Basbanes calls "a gentle madness" in his book on bibliophiles by the same name—I have it imperfectly, either in a feeble form or else offset partially by other codes. I think the latter guess is correct; my collector's drive and the opposing impulses are like genes for hair, which often produce a blend of tones. Like many self-assessments, estimation of myself in this respect is made possible by comparison with others. Some, known to me by reputation, are celebrated connoisseurs of books and are often maniacal readers, who would agree with Logan Pearsall Smith: "People say that life is the thing, but I prefer reading." Those I shall depict here are not of great wealth nor celebrity, but are still more methodical, more engaged than I. Yet in my way I can join their company.

I

The most dedicated book lovers I know are a British team whom I met in the 1990s. I first visited them during Lent. London was very cold that winter; we ate hot-cross buns and drank tea in front of a small gas fire. These people are booksellers, not just collectors. "Unfair," you'll say; "that doesn't count. Theirs is a business." True—but not only a business. It is a living in the sense of "source of income" but additionally in the old meaning used for parish appointments in the Established Church—that is, a standing, a residence, an income, but also a way of life. They work out of their large flat, acquiring their stock by various means, including visits to estate sales, and carrying on their trade by catalogue. Thus, like other secondhand book dealers, they must first accumulate their wares in individual lots, rather than ordering from publishers. They specialize in the antiquarian trade. They have, between them, French, Italian, Latin, and Greek (one of the team also lectures in French at a University of London college) and they have large selections in those languages as well as in eighteenth-century English letters, a favorite field.

Their stock of goods has expanded so that it has taken over the flat as well as their lives, like the crowds of words and metaphors that took over the early prose style of Proust—sometimes the later writing too (like the styles of Ruskin, Carlyle, and other Victorians). Crates of books are stacked on the stairs (theirs is the top floor, and the staircase leading to their door is used by no one else), in the hallway, on the floor elsewhere; shelves line the walls of the sitting room and adjoining dining room, where one cannot dine, the table groaning with heavy tomes instead of food (we always ate out); there are piles on end tables and footstools, a few in the loo, and many in the back exit intended for fire emergencies but nearly obstructed. Probably the kitchen contains boxes and shelves, though I've never seen that part of the flat. The visitor steps cautiously, as if playing hopscotch. One even sits with care, since the sofa and chairs likewise sport volumes that seem to have migrated there, looking for comfort. The impression one receives is quite the opposite of that, say, in Bauman Rare Books in Manhattan, a beautifully arranged shop, where you have only to mention a title that interests you and an elfin clerk is ready with a ladder to get it, in a movement that reminds me by contrast of boys who dive for coins in the sea to please tourists. (I don't know what Bauman's warehouse might be like.)

Year after year many of my friends' volumes are sold, and new acquisitions arrive to take their places. Thus their collections shift, as in shops and university libraries overflowing with new arrivals, as older books are taken off-site to what I call a "book barn." But this is their home, not a shop. I have wondered at their system of classification. It would appear not to exist, but titles must be arranged for...