Books: A Memoir (review)

Larry McMurtry is known to the general public as a novelist and screenwriter. But to those in the bibliophilic world, he is recognized as a prominent bookseller, proprietor of Booked Up, one of the most exciting used- and antiquarian-book shops of recent decades, first in Washington, DC, and now in Archer City, Texas. He loves the book business, and most of his days (after his stints of writing in the early mornings) have been devoted to it. This short memoir, consisting of 109 very brief sections, includes allusions to and capsule characterizations of many dealers, and it will be a delight to those who (like me) made the rounds of shops all over the country in the 1960s and 1970s. Commenting on it gives me the opportunity to bring up two important points that I never tire of emphasizing.

One arises in the opening sentence of section 70: “I’m proud of my carefully selected 28,000–volume library and am not joking when I say that I regard its formation as one of my most notable achievements.” He feels the need to say he is not joking because, as he clearly assumes, most people will find it hard to believe that the author of so many books could consider his collection an equivalent accomplishment. But I perfectly understand his feeling and have expressed it in print myself, both in connection with my own collection and as a general principle. Whether one is a “scholar” or not, the assemblage of a first-rate collection is a scholarly undertaking, requiring the depth of knowledge and the creativity that go into the writing of a good scholarly book. Not every collection rises to this standard, of course, just as not every so-called scholarly book deserves the name. But it is worth remembering that connoisseurship requires scholarship, and that scholarship can manifest itself in ways other than the writing of words on paper.

The second point has to do with the interest in books as physical objects. Early on, in section 19, McMurtry speaks of “the pleasure of holding the physical book itself: savoring the type, the binding, the book’s feel and heft.” Similar statements appear at other places. Thus it is a little disconcerting when, in section 71, he says, “I don’t consider books to be objects.” In the context, one understands what he means, because here he is writing about the objects he has accumulated in addition to books. Perhaps we can excuse the comment, since he has demonstrated elsewhere his recognition that books are indeed objects. Still, it is a risky thing to say, because many (most?) people think of physical books only as vehicles for words, as something totally different from objets d’art, or objets of any kind. I wish, therefore, that McMurtry, besides expressing his appreciation of the design and feel of books, had seized the occasion to note other ways in which the physical features of books are significant. Books, like other objects, hold clues that allow the partial reconstruction of their own manufacturing history; and their typography and layout reflect historical trends and affect readers’ responses. No opportunity should be lost for repeating these points.