Oedipus and the Sphinx - 3

(I can't take credit for this - someone sent it to me and it was too good not to share!)

Orwell's Tuppence-worth...

It's nice to know that there's a confederacy of booksellers out there with shared life-experience. If, at any time, you think that you're going mad and this stuff can't really be happening to you, here's George Orwell's essay of book-selling reminiscences to reassure you that we've all been there...

Telephone Conversation...

Canto XII - The Moody Fens of Incoherence...

There is a presumption that is visited upon every person who walks into a bookshop – that they can read. Having passed through the portal, no-one is going to assume that you are here to stare at the bindings or that you wish to immerse yourself in the spectacle that is a minor sort of financial activity taking place before you. No, having set foot in a bookstore, it will be assumed that you are here to find something to read; that you in fact have some kind of facility with the language.

(Here, I take no issue with those people who don’t speak English but who enjoy reading in their own tongue, and enter a bookshop on the off-chance that there is something waiting inside for them in their own vernacular. I feel your pain.)

I’m fully aware that to assume things is to make an “ASS” of “U” and “ME”, but on the whole, walking into a bookshop to conduct business raises at least a reasonable level of expectation about the customer’s literacy and their ability to communicate. How then, to explain this:

A customer walks in and sees a copy of The Little Prince displayed for sale. Picking it up she says:

“How old is this?”

Gently taking the book from her I check the publication details and reply:

“It’s a recent edition, produced in 2005.”

A look of annoyance creases her features.

“No,” she says, miffed, “I mean, how old is it?”

Returning the book to her, I mentally switch gears.

“I understand,” I say, “it was written by Antoine de Saint-Exupery in 1943. It’s a tried and true classic.”

The customer slams the book on the counter top.

“No!” she growls, “I don’t care about that. I want to know the age of it!”

Realisation dawns.

“I see,” I say; “you’re asking, for which age group is it appropriate.”

“Obviously!” she fumes.

“No – not obviously” passes through my brain, “given that you are a gibbering moron I shouldn’t expect you to communicate in anything other than a slack-jawed yowl; but if you are going to mangle the language of Shakespeare, please at least try to grunt coherently next time you attempt to make a purchase.” However, this is what comes out of my mouth:

“My mistake. It’s one of those books enjoyed by people of any age, particularly the young. Would you like to buy it?”

“Oh, alright,” she says ungraciously, “I suppose so...”

Like she’s doing me a favour, after making her look good. Sheesh!

Oedipus & the Sphinx - 2

And again, this is true.

Seriously, you can't make this stuff up...

Merry Christmas!

Canto XI - The River Lethe

Okay. Here comes a customer: they look slightly dazed but happy, as if they’re in the aftermath of some light head trauma. They wander up to the front counter with that “Oh how sweet: a place that sells books!” look on their face, and they turn to address you. You can expect that they will be looking for:

A) Your assistance in finding a gift for someone you've never even met;

B) A book about which they've forgotten every pertinent detail;

C) A book on a topic that they've heard someone talking about, but about which they have no clue; or

D) Something that doesn't even exist. 

We’ve covered “A” and “B” in previous posts, but the other options raise new wrinkles in dealing with the lightly insane, ie. people who buy books (that “s” in “insane” is strictly optional, by the way. Use it; drop it; as you see fit).

Option “C” occurs whenever the punter has had a thrilling session with a companion or acquaintance wherein a topic of seeming import has arisen. They will hurry away to your shop afterwards and – using the mere skerricks of information that they’ve retained – try to purchase suitable reading matter in order to appear fully conversant at the next encounter.

“I want a book all about a famous German philosopher of the 17^th Century,” they’ll say, to which you will reply - with some justification I might note – “which one?”

Reeling off a list of names will serve no purpose because, of the minimal gleanings the customer has remembered from the discussion, details like names, dates and titles will not number amongst them. Instead, words like “sublime”, or “excellent”, or phrases like “very deep”, or “truly insightful”, will have stuck and this is what the cretin has summoned forth for you to work with.

With perseverance and great restraint you will finally pin down the likely work to be Immanuel Kant’s A Critique of Pure Reason, written by him in the 1700s; however, when you airily note that he was actually Prussian, the sale will stop dead in its tracks. What little information they have is unshakable in its Truth: they may have heard “17^th Century” and not “1700s” but that’s all that they’ll give you. If you’re lucky they will walk out the door with an “adorable” copy of Lamb’s Tales From Shakespeare instead, as recompense for having wasted your life, but don’t count on it.

Option “D” is quite similar, but it derives from the sinister quagmire that is talk radio. Whilst driving, or gardening, or lacquering the cat, the punter will have heard a reference to something that appeals to them – a forthcoming TV show, or a movie that’s being made, or a work upon which a writer is currently making progress. Inevitably, they will walk immediately down to your store and ask for it. I once had a customer ask me for the “new Monty Python DVD” moments after they heard an interview with Terry Jones and Eric Idle, in which the two of them vaguely mused that another Python film wasn’t out of the question. And who copped flak for gently talking the customer off this particular ledge? You guessed it.

Sometimes it’s just that the topic about which they’ve come to you in search of enlightenment is so obscure that no-one has written anything about it: “the Cicada life-cycle in New South Wales’s Blue Mountains”, “Brazing in the early Sydney Colony”, “Railway Upholstery in the British Indian Holdings”. Your gentle suggestion that perhaps the customer is the person who should be turning the sod on this particular field is always met with a derisive sniff.

The customer’s preconceptions get in the way with this line of inquiry also. I was once asked for a book on the medical and household uses of garden weeds in Australia. Now, we have a bunch of books that discuss this topic – everything from treating medical infirmities to dyeing, with only the plants ready-to-hand in your backyard. But no: the punter wanted a book about using “weeds”, not “plants”. After trying to point out that the word “weed” is simply gardener’s jargon for a plant not where it ought to be, I got the derisive sniff and a look that indicated that I was some kind of mental deficient. What can you do?

Bad as all this is, there are many times that it gets worse. By starting their inquiry without accurate information, credible details, or any type of basic research, and then - after discovering that you’re unable to provide them with what they want - treating you like you’re some kind of failure, they ask if there’s anything close to what they’re after. Something in the ballpark, as it were. With an Herculean effort you provide a solid fall-back option, and place it in front of them for their consideration. That’s when they drop the other shoe:

They’ve also forgotten their glasses.

(Focus, people! For Christ’s sake: focus!)

Canto X - The Glassy Plain

Recently I attended an examination of a private collection of books with a view to making purchases for the shop. The seller had an impressive array of titles – mainly history and large art books – some of which attract very healthy prices in the secondhand market. Along with these were a very nice range of classic literature titles, hardcovers dating from the 30s and 40s which are excellent for padding out the classics department. As it turned out, despite the presence of over 50 boxes of these offerings, we walked away with very little.

Why? Almost every single book was covered in adhesive plastic.

There are some who think that adhesive plastic – most often marketed under the brand name ConTact® – is a boon to collectors, and to libraries, where books are worked hard for their contents, this may be the case. However here’s a definition for you:

*****

damage /’dæmıdzh (noun): 1. Injury or harm which impairs value or usefulness; 2. (in bibliophily) anything which removes a book from its original state.

*****

People who sell books for their value as objects – not simply for their contents – regard adhesively plasticized volumes as irreparably damaged, and of little worth. Simply put, as far as book collectors go, ConTact® is the work of the Devil. If, for example, you ordered a book online from a secondhand or antiquarian bookdealer and it showed up covered in the demon plastic, you would be well within your rights to demand your money back – unless their description of the book explicitly stated the presence of the hellish material. Some dealers don’t care about ConTact®; some care so little that they forget to mention it, considering the stuff a useful addition to the book’s structure and integrity. These are not dealers with whom you should do business.

When dealing with rare books, the term “Fine” (or the hideous misnomer, “Mint”) declares that the book is new and unused – in the exact state which you would expect if you bought it off the shelf in a new bookstore. In secondhand and rare bookdealing, if a book isn’t “Fine”, the reasons why it isn’t must be explicitly stated; otherwise, someone’s trying to sell you a pup. Anything done to a book to “protect” it, or repair it, is classed as “damage” in the trade and it should be noted in the book’s description.

Non-adhesive plastic is available and widely used, even by those who eschew ConTact® in all its Satanic forms. It is a worthy addition to a book’s integrity and will extend its life, or the life of its dustwrapper; however, it too, must be noted in the description.

Remember: adhesive plastic is for school books and library books (which is why the term “Ex-Library” is considered so poisonous in the book trade). Don’t stick it on your precious collectibles! Let them breathe!