The Palau Islands, Pacific Ocean, and Bochum, Germany

Buying collections is always an exiting business, at least for me. There are so many elements of surprise, even if you have an idea what is in the collection, because you helped build it. Here is one of my most pleasant recollections of buying from an old customer.

The Pelew, now Palau, Islands are a group of about 250 islands in the Western Pacific. They were first sighted by Maggelan in 1522 and claimed for the Spanish crown. In 1899 the Spanish sold them to the Germans, who owned and explored them until 1914. There is some literature on them, most notably Keate’s “An Account of the Pelew Islands” and several German publications. Not a region that lends itself to extensive collection of its literature, one would think.

However, I had a customer in Bochum, in the industrial heart of Germany, who collected just that. He didn’t buy much, but he bought regularly, was well informed and paid on the dot. A pleasant customer.

One day he phoned me and told me he had to part with his collection, as he and his wife were moving into a home for old people. I said I’d come and have a look at his books and he was very pleased.

A few days later I drove up to Bochum, right in the middle of the Ruhrgebiet. I was looking forward to meeting this man and seeing his collection. My route guidance system led me to a unprepossessing block of 50ies flats. I rang the bell and walked up the dingy stairs to the third floor, where a small, elderly man greeted me and took me into the tiny flat that was furnished in the typical 50ies style. His wife, a sweet, grandmotherish old lady, had prepared a huge plate of sandwiches, made coffee, and had set out what was quite obviously the best china. I ate and drank a cup of coffee, and asked to see the books. As I’d received a list, written out by hand with a fountain pen, I knew what I was going to find. But to keep up appearances, I dallied here and there, and after about an hour I said I’d reached a verdict. He called in “Mother” and they sat on the sofa, looking expectant. I quickly hitched up my original price a little and told them. They exchanged glances, and after a few seconds, “Mother” nodded almost imperceptively and “Father” agreed.

Then I asked him why he collected books on such a specialized subject. Well, he said, as a boy he’d read about these islands in a magazine article, and the name had captured his imagination. So he wanted to know more, had gone to the library, and, drawing a blank, had bought his first book on the subject.

Had he ever been there? Perhaps he’d been a seaman earlier in his life? No, he said, the farthest they’d ever been from home was Basle in Switzerland. “I’ve been a postman all my life, he said, and we never had much money to spare. What Mother saved up I spent on books.” Mother smiled and squeezed his hand.

I packed the books into boxes they had thoughtfully provided. Mother put the remaining sandwiches into a paper bag and gave them to me, and offered to fill a thermos with coffee. I thanked and took my leave.

And, yes, the books sold quite well.

(Also published on the website of the International League of Antiquarian Booksellers www.ilab.org., Picture: Wikipedia)

The True Story of Migraines and Book Buying

Several years ago I had a customer who occasionally bought an expensive book. He was not a regular, but sometimes came by to buy something, I think to reward himself for business deals that had gone well.

He drove a flashy car, a Porsche that he was very proud of. He usually sprang out of it, wearing an Armani suit, an open white shirt and a gold chain around his fleshy, tanned neck.

One day he arrived unannounced - looking distraught.

“Something dreadful and disappointing has happened to me”, he moaned. “I need something to take my mind off it.”

I showed him several nice objects, and he finally took a 5-volume “Carl Freiherrn Hügels Kaschmir und das Reich der Siek …” He took it, not even bargaining about over the price.

He was really upset.

As I saw he was dying to tell someone, I cautiously asked about the reason for his agitated state of mind.

“You remember my girlfriend?”

 I did, a breathtaking, slightly overweight blonde.

“She suffers from these dreadful migraines.”

“Poor girl, that is really terrible”, I commiserated.

 “They take two or three days, and it’s horrible. So, we found that there is a migraine clinic near Karlsruhe (about 70 km from here) and that’s were I take her in my Porsche whenever the symptoms start. She usually stays the night, and I fetch her back when she feels better.”

I agreed that this was probably the best, and that I thought it was very kind of him.

“Yes,” he almost sobbed, “and now I’ve found out that she’s having an affair with the migraine doctor!”

I kept a straight face, packed his books into plastic bags, consoled him as best I could and then sent him on his miserable way.

(Also posted on the website of the International Antiquarian Booksellers' Association ILAB.)

Tante Trude and the E-Book

The other day, I was having a very nice cup of coffee with Tante Trude in one of the old-fashioned cafès one still occasionally finds in Germany.

“Tell me, dear boy”, she said, pointing with her fork, “what is that little leather book you are always carrying around?”

I told her it was an electronic book. She was fascinated.

“An electric book? What does it do? Does it have a little lamp so you can read in the dark?”

“No, it’s an electronic book. In fact”, I said, opening my Kindle, “it is 140 books at the moment.”

She looked at the little machine, ate some Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte, and frowned.

“How? 140? I mean, where are they all? It’s a computer, isn’t it? Do you buy the books in a shop?  How do you put them in there?”

“Stop, stop! One at a time. Yes, I bought it. And yes, I buy the books in the Internet as well. I’m not sure how it works myself, but they arrive instantly on the device, once I’ve bought them.”

“I can see how that could be useful”, said Tante Trude, sipping coffee daintily, “but it’s not like a real book at all. You know how I like to read, with a real book in my hands. It feels nice.” She handled the little device and transferred some cream onto the screen. “This is not to bad, but it’s not like a book at all.”

“I know, dear Tante”, I said, cleaning the cream off with a napkin. “It’s not supposed to be a real book. You know how much I like books and how many I’ve got, not to mention that I’ve been a bookseller for all of my life.”

“Yes,” she smiled. “You even pretended to sell books when you and the other children played shop …”

I cut her off hastily: elderly relatives sometimes go down memory lane and forget to come back on time:

“Yes, so I don’t think anyone can accuse me of not liking books. However, when I was waiting for you just now, I read. And I had over 140 books to choose from! Imagine the catastrophe of going somewhere and not having the right book with you. I remember going on holidays and taking an extra suitcase just for books. Now I carry a little library right here in my pocket. Isn’t that great?”

“Well, yes”, she answered, “but still, you know, real books … remember that time in London when I was allowed to touch that prayer book? THAT was a book, this is a reading machine.”

“To be sure,” I answered, “that’s what it is. And books are about reading, aren’t they? I mean, it’s what’s printed on the pages, that’s important, not the packaging!” I wasn’t quite sure about this line of reasoning, nevertheless, I was especially forceful.

“You may be right”, Tante Trude smiled, “but still, it’s not the same. I understand about taking lots of books along, I understand about buying a book when you feel like it. I understand all that. But I still think a nice book needs a nice binding, nice paper, ah, well, a nice feeling about it. That electric book of yours is a machine, books have souls.”

“Beloved Tante”, I implored, “books are made of dead trees, ink, and such, they don’t live, or have souls, as you call it. This thing is the future and a gift to all readers.”

“Nonsense, dear boy,” and she finished her cake. “I don’t deny it is useful. You can keep it, and read all you want. But I’ll still go to Frau Hermann and talk to her in the shop for a bit, and hear what she has to say about the books she’s gotten in, and I’ll buy a nice book from her.”

“Good on you, Tante Trude”, I said. “The world needs more people like you. But what do you do when you get cream onto your nice new book, eh?”

“I do what I always do – I lick it off”, she smiled. “Good bye, dear boy. Oh, and what do you do, when the electric fails? I can still read by candlelight!”

With that parting shot she was off, leaving me with my E-reader, my doubts and the bill.

(Also posted on the website of the International League of Antiquarian Booksellers)