Look, I’ve made worse decisions.
I’ve bought more than one book that wasn’t a true first. I remember pulling a near fine, beautiful clothbound For Whom The Bell Tolls—its bright, unread spine screaming at me from a thrift store shelf during my early collecting days—only to later discover it lacked that Scribner’s “A”… and a dust jacket. Still, I skipped out of there thinking I’d scored.
Or, on the flip side, there was the time I bought a handful of letters (well, more like short, typewritten notes signed in ink) from William S. Burroughs to the editor of a tiny, obscure little magazine. The editor handed them to me and asked, “Can you give me $140 for the lot?”
This was 1997. I was part of a collective of booksellers in a San Francisco shop called Tall Stories, in the Mission District. I looked over the final Burroughs note while considering the price. It read something like (and I’m paraphrasing here): soon, the last pygmy three-toed sloth will be blasted into extinction from its tree by a white hunter wielding his shotgun.
Do me a favor and read that last line again — this time imitating Burroughs’ flat, nasal, sonorous delivery.
“Yes, I’ll take them.”
After The Editor left, I priced my six letters at $280—double my money!—and slipped them into the store’s shared glass case. Not long after, Alan Milkerit, a real bookman who’d been teaching me the ropes, walked in and noticed something amiss in the case. He looked closer. He opened the case and snapped my letters up. Then he tossed three $100 bills on the counter and said to me, sternly, “Haven’t I taught you anything yet, boy?”
Fast forward to my latest gaffe: A.A. Milne’s When We Were Very Young. Yeah. I should’ve done a little homework. In my defense, it looked like something. I was on one of those lesser-known auction sites, thinking, this one’s being overlooked—especially since the listing and its description didn’t even mention “Winnie the Pooh.” But no edition check, no online comps, and was it originally issued in a jacket? (Yes, it was.) In the end, I went with a hunch and twenty bucks.
Turns out the auction house doesn’t describe books very well, either; which means mine might be as collectible as a used coloring book. (Okay… just a little more.)
We’ve all got blind spots. Mine, apparently, are English nursery rhymes. And the less-trafficked auction sites.
More soon—assuming I don’t fall for a mid-grade Babar next.
