The Transom Remainders

If a book does not sell – or does not sell sufficiently to meet the expectations of a publisher who overestimated the market and consequently printed too many copies – it may be remaindered, which is to say, sold at a price considerably lower that its original price. University presses, at least as Chester Kerr defined them, were not supposed to remainder books but were instead to keep them available for long periods because they possessed enduring intellectual value, even if there was no immediate demand for them. For some university presses, the fact that they never remaindered the books they published was once a point of honour, advertised, if not to authors, then certainly to employees, who were told not even to mention the word.

I remember being told not to mention it. I remember also the wink that accompanied the warning. Our house did not remainder books, period. But we did have some absolutely smashing sales. The annual damaged book sale, held a couple of weeks before Christmas, was an ever-popular event at which one might locate a few entirely undamaged, uh, perennial favourites. The titles I remember that popped up with remarkable regularity had to do with (a) Italian chickens and (b) ball-bearings. Those were non-starters at regular retail, but knock off 75 per cent and people would actually buy them. Perhaps they were to become gifts for the unsuspecting. ‘Season’s greetings, Uncle Fudd, and here’s a fine volume on Italian chickens, just the thing for an old rooster like yourself.’ Well, one can only imagine.

Our most memorable book-dumping (we called it ‘inventory reduction,’ an entirely transparent euphemism) extravaganza was the ‘All You Can Carry for $5’ sale. We were, as I recall, moving from a large warehouse with a leaky roof to a smaller one that, through bone-dry, would not accommodate our entire inventory. Lots of books had to go: twenty-five of these, fifty of those, 100 of those over there, and, for bait, ten of these. Altogether, we had 100 or so titles and thousands of copies. We also had customers lined up around the block. Our rules were simple: you paid your money, entered the designated warehouse area, and helped yourself to as many books as you could carry, unassisted, across the threshold. You could have friends help you load up, but you had to leave the building under your own steam. Anything dropped inside stayed inside, and was again made available to customers. People were allowed to bring in bags, boxes, backpacks, or anything else to contain their selections, but each person had to carry his or her books through the door, solo. No wheels allowed.

What a spectacle it was. I recall in particular the fellow who brought in a double-sized sleeping bag and three acquaintances. He loaded the bag with what I would estimate were approximately 300 pounds of books, and had the three acquaintances hoist the thing to his shoulders. They spent a few moments in an effort to achieve proper balance, but of course they never succeeded (loose books zipped into an overlarge cloth bag??), and the poor fellow, bent nearly double and buckling at the knees, shuffled, staggered, and caromed out of the building, bouncing off both doorjambs and sprawling on concrete, pressed beneath the weight of his bargains. Spectators cheered. The fellow, scraped, scratched, and, for all anybody knew, concussed and herniated, stood and smiled feebly. He and his friends then proceeded to drag their booty to a nearby truck.

A fair number of persons attending our ‘All You Can Carry for $5’ sale were of the opinion that it was a business opportunity – not ours, but theirs. Fools that we were, we’d sold them books that nobody else wanted (at the moment); they’d spent five bucks; and now they were going to make a whole bunch of money on the deal. Since all this happened long before the development of mechanisms allowing the sale of books online, our customers sped as rapidly as their vehicles could carry them to second-hand book dealers. During the...