Published in Descant 145, Volume 40, No. 2 - Summer 2009.
A veteran Antiquarian bookseller can read your character from your books in the same manner your doctor knows your eating and drinking habits from the evidence on your face. In spite of your lies. This shouldn’t be a surprise. All it really means is that people who do something with dedication for a long time develop skills which become so focused that they often perceive things that most people don’t even notice. Thus booksellers, looking at a person’s library, can see evidence of subtle things that an untrained eye will miss.
A person who spends a lifetime building a library – no matter its size, scope or even the value of its components – is constructing a monument to their character and personality, and the trained observer studying this library thus becomes acquainted with the owner’s character from the clues provided. It’s not just the books that are there which inform us; it is also the books that aren’t there. And the books that are there which have never been read (yes, we can even tell that) or the ones, usually on an obscure or difficult subject where the dustwrapper tucked into the text early on informs us that it was put aside for a more serious time and never picked up again. Even the arrangement by subject and the neatness of a library – or lack of it – tells a story. This shouldn’t be surprising, nor is it particularly profound; it’s just that nobody really notices the clues except booksellers. A bookseller doesn’t set out to learn such things, it’s merely another of those useless, questionable benefits of many years spent rummaging through millions of books. And I won’t even mention here what we often find behind the books in deceased people’s libraries – that could be an article in itself. I could go on at great length about what I can see when I peruse a man’s library, but here I want to touch on another interesting phenomenon which follows automatically from the above points. The intimacy which occurs when you closely examine a person’s library causes another effect which the casual observer will be unaware of. When the library being assessed is that of a friend or client whole facets of that person’s character previously unknown become apparent. Often with these libraries the dealer encounters books he sold the collector which he has long forgotten selling and at prices which cause chagrin when they are a small fraction of the current going price. It is a continuation of the emotional connection which existed while the collector was alive and that connection is often enhanced by these reminders of past exchanges of money for the artifacts of culture.
But most surprising to me when I began to notice my reaction many years ago was what happens while one assesses the libraries of people you never knew. While each book tells you more about how the collector thought and felt, this unknown person gradually evolves into an acquaintance to be respected and then often, and most extraordinary, one finds one thinking of the owner as a co-conspirator and begins to believe that the dead man was a friend.
Again, not especially profound, except that, it can get a bit weird for the bookseller when the owner who formed the library is dead, which is a fairly common situation. So we find ourselves becoming intimate with someone that we never met nor ever will meet. A very similar relationship must occur with the biographer attempting to piece together their subject’s life through the accumulated details of their research.
Here is an example of what can and does occur.
Several years ago I got a call from a librarian I knew slightly. She was closing down her parent’s house and there were books; did I want to look at them. I had met her during a period where I contributed my time once a year to her branch library which had an Antique Roadshow-type evening for books where people could bring their old books and papers and get a free professional opinion of their value.
I followed the usual procedure with my librarian friend, asking the necessary background questions which a bookseller learns to ask to save wasted trips. This time it was easier because of the address, in Forest Hill. Although there are exceptions, a bookseller generally has a better chance of finding a worthy book or two in Forest Hill than, say, in Willowdale, so I agreed without too much interrogation.
When I arrived I was not disappointed. It was a big house and the books were kept in a library room all neatly shelved and arranged. It was one of the types of libraries I most love to see, nothing of great rarity or value but no junk either. The man had been a business man and he was the kind of person I have come to greatly admire, a man who made his living in the business world – and evidenced by his house, pretty successfully – but whose private life was consumed by a love of history and ideas. His library reflected all this. Most of the best private libraries I have seen in forty years of bookselling have been formed by such people. It is not wealth that is the basis of an important library but imagination, passion and dedication.
By the time I worked my way through this man’s library I admired and liked him enormously, disappointed that I had never met him, but feeling as one often does on examining his books, that I knew him well. In fact sentimental as it must sound one often ends by feeling that the man has become a friend. Every time you come across one of his books that you also have loved you feel you have more in common. A shared book, like a shared joke, increases that bond.
As I said, the books were in their own room, a library completely shelved, floor to ceiling. There were books in several languages, another mark of the scholarly man, and on all the subjects a man of wide tastes would be interested in, rather than the narrow subject focus that one often finds in an academic scholarly library. Early on I found a book with a bookplate, that bore the name Bennett. The woman, who I knew by her married name, said, yes, that was her father’s bookplate and then informed me that her brother was Avie Bennett, the owner of McClelland and Stewart, which I hadn’t known.
There was one entire section, floor to ceiling, of books in Hebrew which I left unexamined, being unable to even decipher the alphabet. (A bookseller learns to decipher place-names and imprints in quite a few languages, even to a degree in Russian, but Hebrew and Arabic are impossible for me.)
When I was done assessing and removing those I could use, I piled them up, added my total and told her what I could pay her for them. She agreed, and then said, “You could take away any of the others for free if you want, because the rest are going out in the garbage this afternoon.”
“The garbage?” I was shocked. “You can’t throw them in the garbage. What about the Hebrew books? Surely, some Jewish institution would want them?”
“We tried some”, she replied. “Nobody wanted them. My brother told me that if you don’t take them they’re going out – today.”
I was furious. Here’s the man who owns the most famous publishing house in the country and he’s got so little respect for books he’s going to throw them in the garbage. And worse, they’re his father’s books – this wonderful guy who I feel, after dealing with his library, is my friend even though I never met him. To make matters worse I knew that the residue of English, French and German books would have a hope of surviving because garbage men often rescue what they think they might be able to sell, but the Hebrew books would certainly go to the dump – no one would bother to try and sell them. So I decided to take them all. And I did. I took the entire Hebrew section, every book. And, for some reason, I also took a plaster bust of Chaim Weizmann that was sitting on his desk, a shabby-looking and obviously cheap piece of no artistic or commercial value. I didn’t understand why I took it, it was obviously worthless but it sat on his desk and it must have symbolized something important to him. It was perhaps the only thing in the library completely lacking in commercial value which meant it’s value for him must have been entirely sentimental. Taking it somehow strengthened the emotional tie with this new friend, who I had never met.
But I was enraged and disgusted with Avie Bennett, and I swore retribution. And I knew given the circles I travel in, that sooner or later I would meet him somewhere and I vowed that when I did I would castigate him for his barbarous lack of respect for his father’s beloved books.
Back at my store, I called Bernard Baskin, who is a Rabbi but who also for many years has been a bookseller specializing in Judaica. He also deals in most aspects of the book arts, fine printing, illustrated and press books, not surprisingly, he being the brother of Leonard Baskin, the eminent artist and illustrator.
Bernie came over, and first informed me that they were Yiddish books, not Hebrew, and then went through them telling me what various ones were. “That one David,” he said, holding a small unassuming book, “seems to be the first book on Chess, published in Canada in Yiddish, or at least that’s what it says.” (I promptly sold it on his next visit to one of my colleagues from London for $500.00 – and he probably sold it for 2 or 3 times that. The first Yiddish book on chess done in Canada! I wish I had it back now. Except the sad part of that dream is that even if I ever see another copy I probably wouldn’t even recognize it for the second time.)
Bernie Baskin took a half-dozen or so books which interested him as payment for his services and I set about seeing how I was going to deal with the rest. I had not been quite as stupid as it may appear, because I did know that while such books are in a language indecipherable to me they occasionally would have an extra titlepage in English. But more important was that if they were published in North America they would almost always have somewhere the name of the printer and the city in English. Which meant that any of them which were printed in Canada (like the Chess book) were automatically Canadiana. Imprints, as book people call these things, are important for they indicate important social and historical significance. I knew I could sell any of these and as it happened there were quite a few. I separated those out and began.
I had one serious private collector of Canadian Judaica who lived in Ottawa so I sent him a card telling him about them. He phoned right away (In those days, when anyone in Ottawa telephoned, you knew they worked for the government and we were all paying for the call). I told my client they were all being held at his convenience and there was no hurry in getting in – neglecting to mention that the reason there was no hurry was because, except for him, I didn’t know anyone who would take them, even for free. And in fact I then proceeded to attempt to give away the rest. I tried whatever Jewish groups I could think of and nobody wanted any part of them. Clutching at straws I even tried Mount Sinai Hospital who replied that they didn’t even want books in English and certainly not any in Yiddish. But gradually they got whittled down. My Ottawa client took all the Canadian ones in ones and twos over a lengthy period and one day I found that I had disposed of them all without throwing out a single book. It took me several years, but I didn’t care. True booksellers never throw books in the garbage. We’re happy to give them away if we can’t sell them but in 40 years I’ve never thrown a book in the garbage, and I intend to die in that state of grace.
Just when the last one left, articles appeared in the newspapers about a man in New York whose parents had been immigrants from Europe, and on their deaths he had attempted to do exactly what I did, give their library of Yiddish books to some institution. But Yiddish was a language of European Jews, an argot of the outsider, not unlike the secret sub-languages invented by groups everywhere who have something to hide, usually from the authorities. Those Jews, from the early immigrants to the ones who escaped or survived the Holocaust, and emigrated to America, brought the language with them. Free of persecution, the language invented to survive in a hostile setting, was no longer necessary. So, while large numbers of the words were absorbed into English usage, especially in the jokes of Jewish comedians, the language itself was dying, along with the generation who brought it here. But this guy in New York, unlike me, got really angry; this after all was his heritage and no one wanted it. So he got a large warehouse somewhere in Massachusetts and started advertising that he wanted those Yiddish books. He has largely saved most of these books for, apparently, the first warehouse is filled and has expanded, and I understand he’s still doing it. A noble and very important mission. He has personally ensured the survival of the written record of a very important segment of human existence. Good for him. Had I discovered him earlier I would have given him mine too (less the chess book, of course).
Years passed. And more years, and I never got to insult Avie Bennett. But then one day at the Harbourfront International Festival’s cocktail party I was chatting with a writer friend when up walked an older guy to speak to my friend. Suddenly my friend interrupted to ask. “Do you two know each other? David Mason, Avie Bennett.” We shook hands. My momentary shock at this long-anticipated encounter dissipated and as we chatted I plotted my attack. I could already see that it wasn’t going to be as easy as I had imagined in my fantasies, for he wasn’t the boorish, overbearing lout I had anticipated. He was in fact amiable, completely unpretentious and charming.
“I bought your father’s books.” I ventured, wanting to add – “You know, the ones you were going to throw in the garbage.” Cunning and caution intervened. I’ll wait, I’ll lead up to it slowly, I thought. I’ll work around to it so there’s no way he can escape. I’ll wait till he’s cornered with no way out, then I’ll attack – I’ll skewer him with contempt for his vile betrayal of his father’s legacy.
“You did?” he politely replied.
“Yes when you closed down his house.” I continued, “I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet him. I admire such people tremendously, people whose real passion is for learning not just acquiring more money.” I told him of my successful dispersal of the Yiddish books, describing briefly my efforts to find homes for them to which he said, “Well, I hope you got something out of it all.”
“Yes. It was a lot of work,” I modestly replied, not willing to relinquish even a modest concession, and somehow forgetting to mention the $500 I got for the chess book. When the trap was sprung I wanted the maximum embarrassment and guilt.
“Yes,” he said, “he was a great reader. He loved his books. In fact he didn’t really want to be a business man, he would have liked to have been a university professor. But, of course, he couldn’t get into McGill because he was Jewish and they had a quota on Jews.” Not a trace of anger or bitterness, just a statement of fact. That’s just the way it was, and there was no point in treating it as though it was a moral issue.
The bubble of my anger carried around for fifteen years, or so, burst instantly, and all I was left with was a great sadness at the cruel waste of a life, no doubt seen as successful by others, but probably seen by the father as a life of thwarted passion.
So I didn’t insult Avie Bennett and in fact I no longer wanted to. And I forgave him for his lack of proper respect for his father’s books, but I continue to respect and like his father and I still consider his father my friend even though I never met him. And I guess the moral here, if there is a moral, is that what’s at stake is civilization. And the role of books in continuing our civilization. For most people, including Avie Bennett I think, there is no point in preserving a book you can’t read, but for people like me, and for most booksellers, books are civilization. For me, books provide one of the most important means of binding humanity together. For they contain our history, the record of our noblest dreams and aspirations. And they often guide us to the pathways we should follow. And they provide us some hope that, in the end, humanity has a chance to prevail against the hate, ignorance, prejudices and general insanity we see everywhere today. The proof of this lies in the fact that the Hitlers and Stalins of the world always start by burning books. They start by trying to destroy the ideas they fear; and then it doesn’t take long for them to start getting rid of those people whose ideas they don’t like. And I have come to believe that books – along with some courage – are our defense against these barbarians.
A footnote:
Flash forward another several years. We are at the celebration of McClelland & Stewarts’ completion of a hundred years in business. Assorted literati and hangers-on are swilling wine and schmoozing (note: schmoozing; a Yiddish word now common in English). The president of M & S steps to the mike, says a few words and introduces Avie Bennett. Bennett stands up and the noise level lowers for only a moment and resumes, a measure of the wine consumed, fuelling the usual human preoccupation at such gatherings, namely ambition and lust. The drone gets louder as Avie starts to speak. He tries for a moment then stops, raises his voice sharply, says, “Hey! I gave this company twenty years of my life. You could at least give me five minutes.” That shut them up; at least for a moment. I liked him for that. “He’s the son of a friend of mine”, I said to my companion proudly.
And a second footnote, this one for my fellow booksellers. I received a call from a librarian at Ottawa University a couple of months ago.
The librarian said, “We have here a man who wants to give us what he says is a good collection of Canadian Judaica. We’re not so sure about it. We need an appraisal. Can you do it?”
Pause. “Your donor, his name wouldn’t be so and so, would it?”
“How did you know that?” she asks suspiciously.
Sherlock Mason wants to answer, because I’m a pro, but instead, “Just a guess”, I reply. “Two things. First, you do want it. I haven’t seen it but I know it will be very good. And two, I can’t do an appraisal for you. I can’t even tell Yiddish and Hebrew apart. You need my friend Mordy Bubis. He’ll be able to do it for you.”
“Mordy Bubis? Who’s he?”
“He’s the proprietor of Benjamin Books.”
“Benjamin Books? Where’s that?”
“It’s on Osgoode Street in Ottawa, right across the street from your University. I’d say it’s probably about 100 yards from where you’re sitting.”
“Oh!”
Yet another of the reasons why booksellers die broke.
