A Passion for Books Read online

  Having purchased 4,000 books over forty years means I’ve brought home, on average, almost two books every week, year in and year out, for most of my life. And over all this time I’ve developed—albeit unwittingly and to some extent unintentionally—a procedure, a ritual by which I make each of those books mine and incorporate each into my library. Although the ritual has changed in subtle ways over the years, it has remained essentially the same for as long as I can remember.

  The first step, of course, is walking into a bookstore. (I also purchase books through the numerous mail-order catalogs I receive on a regular basis, but when I do the procedure is somewhat different.) As many hundreds or thousands of times as I’ve done it, I still feel a thrill at stepping through the doors of such an establishment, something akin to the feeling I get stepping out from under the stands at Giants Stadium and seeing the broad, green playing field before the start of a game. There’s an expectation of discovery, a sense of journeying into the unknown, that always excites me.

  For some time now I’ve kept an ongoing list of books I want to buy, and when I go on serious buying expeditions—as opposed to simply dropping into a bookstore—I always bring the list with me. This does not, of course, mean I buy only what’s on the list—or even that I necessarily do buy what’s on the list—but it’s a starting point. Even so, I always allow myself a little time to simply browse, taking in the “New Arrivals” section as well as a number of other subject categories that I habitually peruse.

  Eventually, though, I find the appropriate section and look for the title I’m after. Of course, the book I’m looking for may not actually be there, but when I do find it I again feel that sense of embarking on a journey. So with restrained excitement, I gently take the book from the shelf and hold it for a moment, checking the front cover to make sure it is, in fact, the book I want.

  Since I generally buy books on the basis of familiarity with the author, reviews, and/or recommendations from friends, it is not, strictly speaking, necessary for me to read the flap copy of hardcovers or the back panels of paperbacks, but I always do. I do it, I think, out of a sense of responsibility, because, as a former book editor myself, I know what an effort editors go through to accurately and— even more important—invitingly describe the contents of each title. But since I generally already know what the book is about, and am already inclined to buy it, it is a cursory reading at best.

  The next step is to open the book itself, carefully lifting the front cover and, with brand-new books (as opposed to used ones), quietly thrilling at the slight resistance offered by a cover that’s never been opened before. Gingerly turning the pages, I read the half-title page, the title page, and, in a nonfiction book, the table of contents, savoring each step, until I come to the first page of text. This is the real test, the point at which I will decide to buy or not to buy, elect to make this book part of my life or place it back on the shelf. And so I read the first paragraph, only the first paragraph, never more. If I find myself sufficiently disinterested as to not be able to finish reading the first paragraph, I close the book and put it back where it came from. But if those first hundred words are to my liking—and I have no idea what specific criteria I apply—then the decision has been made.

  But even now I’m not ready to bring the book up to the cashier with my money in hand. Before doing so I always inspect the book, to make sure it’s flawless, to be sure that this is the copy I want to bring home with me. So I look carefully at the dust jacket to make sure it’s neither torn nor soiled in any way, then gently remove it and inspect the binding, both front and back. If I find flaws, I take another copy from the shelf and go through the same procedure until I find one I’m satisfied with, and then, and only then, do I proceed to the cashier. (To be honest, since I rarely buy one book at a time it can take anywhere from half an hour to an hour before I actually stroll over to the cashier.)

  At the earliest opportunity thereafter, usually later in the evening, in the quiet of my home office after my wife and children have gone to sleep, I proceed to the next step of the ritual. I must admit here that I am not only a confirmed bibliophile but also an inveterate list maker, and it’s at this point that these two inclinations dovetail into each other. Because for years I’ve not only kept a running list of those books I’ve purchased—as well as those I’ve read, incidentally—but also an index card file, such as used to be found in libraries, of all the books in my collection. I started all this, I believe, when I was ten or eleven years old, beginning with a simple handwritten list of titles and authors before graduating to handwritten, then typed, index cards, and finally to a computer database program. But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself.

  Having seated myself at my desk, I gently remove my new books from the bag I’ve carried them home in—or from the package in which they’ve arrived from the catalog dealer—and bring up the acquisitions list on my computer. Each new title is assigned an acquisitions number—a consecutive number, beginning with number one for the first purchase of each year—and the list includes, in addition to this number, the book’s author and title as well as the subject matter of the book. None of this, I’ve long since admitted to myself, serves any truly useful purpose, other than the psychological one of making the book mine, of incorporating it not only into my library, but into my mind.

  Then I bring up the database program. This is the second such program I’ve had—the first, an old one by computer standards, was ultimately not sufficiently sophisticated—and it’s become an extremely important part of the ritual. The database contains a template—a “form,” in Microsoft’s language—for each book record, each of which includes a number of fields that I faithfully fill in for each purchase. These fields contain the kind of bibliographic information one would expect in such a record—the author, title, city of publication, publisher, and year of publication. In addition, however, they include the subject matter, to three levels of specification, such as History, American, 20th Century, as well as the book’s format (cloth, trade paperback, mass market paperback, and so forth), the date on which I purchased the book, the acquisitions number, and other miscellaneous information about the book. Finally, there’s a field for the book’s “status,” which I record as “To Be Read,” “Reference,” or “Reserve,” the last of which is used for those books that I may read at some point in the future but are not on the primary list. Of course, as a book’s status changes—for example, once I’ve read it—I go back into the database to change the information.

  Again, none of this serves any obvious practical purpose, yet I find the process of cataloging new books to be one of the greatest pleasures of my life. It provides a kind of closure. It’s a means of taking possession and a way of putting things into order in an otherwise disordered and disorderly world. Although there have been times I’ve felt that perhaps my systems were overwhelming me, I take heart from the fact that Thomas Jefferson, surely one of the greatest of all American minds, similarly devised such systems. Of Jefferson’s penchant for doing so, Jack McLaughlin wrote in his excellent book, Jefferson and Monticello, that “Assembling data of this sort had to be an end in itself for Jefferson, just as his collection of books was more than a convenient library of knowledge. Collecting odd pieces of data and fitting these meaningless bits into a rational system was a way of structuring and ordering his personal universe.” And so it is with me—my catalog serves as a kind of safety net, a means of feeling that, at least to some extent, I have control over my life.

  (There is, to be honest, at least one practical use of all of this. Purchasing more books than I have time to read, I’m constantly falling behind and, at any given time, have several hundreds books I intend to read but haven’t yet had the opportunity to. The “status” field in my database enables me, once I’ve finished reading a book, to immediately call up a list of all those books I haven’t yet read, thus giving me a choice from which I can select the next one.)

  While I have to admit that I derive a ce
rtain amount of satisfaction from cataloging a book (or books, as is frequently the case), there is nevertheless something a little depressing about it as well. It is, perhaps, a little like sex: once it’s done, while one (hopefully) feels satisfied, it’s also tinged with a little sadness, as if one were sorry it was over.

  The ritual is now almost over. Having recorded all the pertinent data into my computer, having officially accessioned my new books, I now open the book from the back and, in pencil, write the purchase date in the upper right hand corner of the back cover. In all the years I’ve been doing this—and it’s now close to thirty—I’ve never had any reason to want to know specifically when I purchased a book. So this too serves no meaningful purpose, except as part of the ritual.

  Now, at last, I’m ready to place my new book on my shelves. After waiting for more years than I like to remember, I recently bought a large number of seven-foot-high bookcases, fulfilling a lifelong dream of filling an entire room with books, and finally having the opportunity to display all my books rather than having half hidden away in cardboard boxes. My library is now divided according to subject area, the books in each area arranged alphabetically by author, so there is a place for everything. And in the final step of my ritual, I find the appropriate section, make a space for the new book between whichever authors it belongs, and slowly slide it into place, making sure that the spine is lined up with all the other books on the shelves, because anything less would offend my sense of order.

  (This last, incidentally, has for years driven my wife to distraction, and she’s threatened on more than one occasion to sneak into the library one night and pull some of the books out just enough so they’re no longer perfectly lined up. I can’t really blame her—it’s the only complaint I ever hear from her about the books—but she restrains herself because she knows if she were to do it, I’d only line them all up again.)

  The chances are, of course, that I may never pull that book from its shelf again, may never feel a sufficiently strong desire to read it or a need to consult it. But it doesn’t matter. It’s there whether I read it or not, whether I need it or not: it’s mine.

  When we are collecting books, we are collecting happiness.

  —VINCENT STARRETT

  How to Get Started in the Book Business

  BY STUART BRENT

  For nearly half a century, Stuart Brent was one of America’s premier book dealers, a champion of literature and fine bookmaking. His store was Chicago’s mecca for the great writers of the Midwest—or those just passing through. We once spent five glorious hours talking with him about currents in contemporary literature and publishing—in both areas Mr. Brent was a prophet who should have been listened to more carefully. This selection is from his marvelous 1962 memoir, The Seven Stairs.

  I had decided to become a bookseller because I loved good books. I assumed there must be many others who shared a love for reading and that I could minister to their needs. I thought of this as a calling. It never occurred to me to investigate bookselling as a business.

  Had I done so, I should have learned that eighty percent of all the hardcover books purchased across the counter in America are sold by twenty booksellers. If I had been given the facts and sat down with pencil and paper, I could have discovered that to earn a living and continue to build the kind of inventory that would make it possible to go on selling, I would need to have an annual gross in the neighborhood of $100,000!

  Even if I had had the facts in hand, they would not have deterred me. If vows of poverty were necessary, I was ready to take them. And I refused to be distressed by the expressions on people’s faces when I confided that I was about to make a living selling books. Sell freight, yes. Sell bonds or stocks or insurance, certainly. Sell pots and pans. But books!

  And I was not only going to sell books—I was going to sell real books: those that dealt seriously and truly with the spirit of man.

  I had finished cleaning and decorating my little shop before it dawned on me that I did not know how to go about the next step: getting a stock of books and records to sell. A study of the classified telephone directory revealed the names of very few publishers that sounded at all familiar. Was it possible there were no publishers in Chicago? If that were the case, would I have to go to New York?

  There was a telephone listing for Little, Brown and Company, so I called them. The lady there said she would be glad to see me. She proved to be very kind, and very disillusioning.

  “No,” she said, “the book business is not easy, and your location is bad. No, the big publishers will not sell to you direct because your account is too small. No, we at Little, Brown won’t either. If I were you, I’d forget the whole idea and go back to teaching.”

  Everything was No. But she did tell me where I could buy books of all publishers wholesale, and that was the information I wanted. I hastened to A. C. McClurg’s and presented myself to the credit manager.

  The fact that I had a shop, nicely decorated, did not seem to qualify me for instant credit. First I would have to fill out an application and await the results of an investigation. In the meantime if I wanted books, I could buy them for cash.

  “All right,” I said. “I want to buy three hundred dollars’ worth of books.”

  “That isn’t very much,” the man said. “How big is your store?”

  “Well,” I said, “it’s fifteen feet long and nine feet wide, and I’m going to carry records, too.”

  He shook his head and, with a sidewise glance, asked, “What did you say your name was?” Then, still apparently somewhat shattered, he directed me to a salesman.

  I launched into my buying terribly, terribly happy, yet filled with all sorts of misgivings. Was I selecting the right books? And whom would I sell them to? But I had only to touch their brand-new shiny jackets to restore my confidence. I remember buying Jules Romain’s Men of Good Will. In fifteen years, I never sold a copy. I’m still trying. I bought Knut Hamsun, Thomas Mann, Sigrid Undset, Joseph Hergesheimer, Willa Cather, Henry James—as much good reading as I could obtain for $298.49. I was promised delivery as soon as the check cleared.

  When the books arrived on a Saturday morning, it was like a first love affair. I waited breathlessly as the truck drew up, full of books for my shop. It wasn’t full at all, of course—not for me, anyway. My books were contained in a few modest boxes. And I had built shelves all the way up to the ceiling!

  Again, a moment of panic. Enough, my heart said. Stay in the dream! What’s next?

  The next step was to get recordings. In this field, at least, I found that all the major companies had branch offices in Chicago. I called Columbia Records and was told they’d send me a salesman.

  He arrived a few days later, blue eyed and blond haired, an interesting man with a sad message. “No, we can’t open you up,” he said. “It’s out of the question. Your store is in direct conflict with Lyon and Healy on the Avenue. So there’s no question about it, we can’t give you a franchise. We won’t. Decca won’t. And I’m sure RCA won’t.”

  I was overcome with rage. Didn’t he know I had fought to keep this country free? Wasn’t there such a thing as free enterprise? Didn’t I have a right to compete in a decent and honorable manner? If I couldn’t get records one way, I’d get them another, I assured him. Strangely enough, he seemed to like my reaction. Later he was able to help me.

  But for the present, I was reduced to borrowing more money from my brother-in-law with which to buy offbeat recordings from an independent distributor. I brought my own phonograph from home and my typewriter and settled down to the long wait for the first customer.

  How do you get going in a business of which you have no practical knowledge and which inherently is a doomed undertaking to begin with? The only answer is that you must be favored with guardian angels.

  The first one to bring a flutter of hope into my life came into it on a September afternoon at a luncheon affair, under I do not know what auspices, for Chicago authors. There I encou
ntered a distinguished-looking white-haired gentleman, tall but with the sloping back of a literary man, standing mildly in a corner. I introduced myself to Vincent Starrett, bibliophile and Sherlock Holmes scholar.

  He listened attentively to my account of myself and took my phone number. A few days later he called to ask for more information about my idea of combining the sale of books and records.

  I pointed out that it was easy, for example, to sell a copy of Ibsen’s Peer Gynt if the customer was familiar with Grieg’s incidental music for the play. Besides, reading and listening were closely allied activities. Anyone with literary tastes could or should have equivalent tastes in music. It was logical to sell a record at the same time you sold a book. Mr. Starrett thought this was a fine idea and, to my shocked surprise, wrote a paragraph about me in his column in the “Books” section of the Chicago Sunday Tribune.

  The Monday after the write-up appeared, I could hardly wait to get to the shop. I expected it would be flooded with people. It wasn’t. The phone didn’t even ring. I was disappointed but still felt that hidden forces were working in the direction of my success. Mr. Starrett’s kind words were a turning point for me—I no longer felt anonymous.

  Some people did see the write-up—intelligent, charming, good people, such as I had imagined gathering in my tiny premises. Among them were two young women who were commercial artists. One day they complained that there was nothing in the store to sit on, and after I had stumbled for excuses, they presented me with a bench decorated on either side with the inscriptions “Words and Music by Stuart Brent,” and “Time Is Well Spent with Stuart Brent.” Now I felt sure things were looking up.