20 August 2015
Accumulations
By Chin Chin
The verb to collect is declined as follows: “I am a collector. You are into retro. He buys junk.” When it comes to accumulating things, there are plenty of different perspectives and they begin with different views as to whether it is a nice thing to do at all.
“Okay, I suppose, if you can’t afford new things.” So speaks the lover of the modern to whom the past is merely bunk. Watch the crowds rifling through the second-hand clothes at a church bazaar and you will begin to see the point. These are no aesthetes hoping to resurrect time gone by. No, the struggling, grabbing and often stealing mass is far more materially-minded.
“That’s cheap. I saw it first. Get your elbow out of my face!”
“Face? That what you call it? Looks more like an arse to me.”
At that point the dialogue descends to a level which, however appropriate to the halls of the established church, is well beyond the sensitivities of the Shaw Sheet, and the item is fought over until the stronger shopper tramples the weaker in the crush and runs off with her (yes, I am afraid it usually is her) by now damaged prize.
But then it isn’t all like that and, to some, buying old clothes or books is an adventure into the past. What fun to wear a dress that was made in the 30s. What fun to read an old edition – particularly if the previous owner has made margin notes. I once saw a copy of Bertrand Russell’s book, “the ABC of Relativity”, and was delighted to find that the copious notes which the previous reader had inserted in the margins of the first two chapters got gradually thinner thereafter before running out at about chapter 7. That’s about where I got lost as well, so each of us had begun in the much the same way, reading it, slightly ostentatiously, no doubt, and perhaps in front of somebody we wanted to impress, with serious little “Ah, yes”s and “indeed!”s muttered half under the breath as we turned the pages. Then the process got slower, rather like somebody trying to drive a car over a ploughed field, before we each became completely bogged down at the start of chapter 8. Never mind, it would all become clear on reading chapter 7 again. Actually, on a more careful reading that chapter wasn’t easy to understand either. What about chapter 6? Hmm, chapter 5 then. The reading was getting less ostentatious now. No? Well, back to chapter 4 and inch by inch we are driven back to the end of the introduction, which isn’t all that transparent either. You cannot go on that sort of trip with somebody, even somebody from a different century, without feeling an affection for them.
I suppose that there are people who are as happy reading an old book on a Kindle as in a leather-bound first edition. Perhaps they read their books on aeroplanes or on trips abroad. Perhaps they don’t have many friends, so often read them in restaurants sitting alone at a table in the corner. All these are perfectly good excuses, but if you prefer to do your reading in a deep armchair, in front of a fire, with a brandy to your right hand and a dog at your feet, then there is no substitute for the smell of leather binding and, until Amazon invent a special scented Kindle, the best way of achieving that is with an old edition.
One of the mysterious things about old books is how they are valued. At first sight you might think this was simple. If people like to read old books, then presumably the older the better, so you would have thought that the older books would command the highest prices. Then you might think that the better the physical quality of the book the easier it would be to read, so that would affect the price too. Actually that isn’t the point. To be valuable an old book needs to be rare and, of course, to be a well-known work as well. For that reason first editions of an author’s first work tend to be more valuable than first editions of its successors. Publishers print small editions of new authors, but once the author is established the risk is less and the later editions becomes much bigger, so there is much less rarity value. In the case of the first Harry Potter book, the value of a first edition depends upon whether it was part of the first print rather than the much larger prints (in which certain corrections were made) which followed it.
Fifty years ago, getting a book valued with an adventure in itself. You would go to the auction house or second-hand bookseller and an expert would be sent for. He would be stooped and bearded, with thick glasses and nicotine-stained fingers. He would also be formidably knowledgeable.
“Has it got the misprinted ‘A’ on the second page?” he would spit out at you when you put your prize volume before him.
“Certainly not” you would reply, trying to wipe the page unostentatiously. “I have always looked after it very carefully.”
“Hmmph” he would say, leering at the page like a pirate assessing a Spanish coin (but without biting it). “It’s the common one. Not the sort of thing we would be interested in.” Then you would leave the shop feeling dirty and rather ashamed, holding the book under your coat.
Now it is so much easier. The internet is full of information on which editions are valuable, how they have done in recent sales, etc. You get out your prize possession and you check it against the descriptions of the volumes which sold for thousands Not quite the same? Oh dear, only a fiver then, rather less than you paid for it. Never mind, you weren’t really interested in the value, were you? You just wanted the pleasure of reading it in front of the fire.
