Regular readers must, by now, greet the deep and habitual skepticism I exhibit toward any tome I do not have in my hand with a cheery wave and friendly smile. However discomfiting for purveyors of books for sale, for my dear readers it invariably portends an amusing anecdote.
This tale won't destabilize our arrangement.
So this morning a gal calls with a "first edition of Black Beauty", wondering if we buy such things.
I warn her that identifying such items is half the battle, but I'll happily check it out if she brings it down. She thanks me and rings off.
Cut to ten minutes ago.
A gal approaches with a disintegrating book in a zip-lock bag, presenting it like a jeweled crown on a purple velvet pillow with brocade fringe.
Bits of browned paper spill out onto the counter like nicotine stained confetti as she extracts it, filling me with foreboding.
"Hi, I called about the Black Beauty?"
"Hmm, let's see."
From a distance it's clear that even if it is an actual first edition she's out of luck- the covers are battered, the pages are brittle & caramel colored and as noted shedding bits of themselves like literary dandruff. But she took the time to bring it in, so I take up the challenge.
I open it up and the first visible page is headed Chapter One. Which means it's missing all of the front matter, so I have no way of knowing if it's a first or not. In any case both hinges were hanging by their webbing and it looked like it might be missing some other whole sections, so I delivered the bad news.
She was disappointed, as she'd seen a copy "just like it" on the Internet for a lot of money. I took a stab at explaining the primacy of condition, with nebulous results, and sent her on her way.
Ah, books.
No comments:
Post a Comment