I should mention that in the course of having the bookstall, I met a few handsome women now and again who were as interesting as they were affable. And my thoughts turned to starting a family whenever I would see Veronica and Emily, my beautiful little nieces, who lived in the country and kept me on my toes during my visits. But books are jealous mistresses. As soon as I was back in London my time was consumed to the point that the pursuit of anything more than cordial friendships was always cut short. Before long, I had lost my youth and my patience for indulging others. Books were everything in life; books were better than wine.
Yes, you could say I had all I ever hoped for. Before the age of thirty, I was blissfully self-sufficient, earning enough to live on and attracting notice for skills that carried special value in our trade. For example, I was unusually adept at deciphering handwriting that was deemed illegible scrawl by others, even though my own eyesight was never better than mediocre, and that only by being glued to spectacles. My abilities were useful in identifying markings made inside books by previous sellers or readers and by authors themselves on proofs or in rare first editions. I could imitate a particular person’s handwriting, as well, so that samples of the style and appearance could be mailed outside of London to potential buyers instead of waiting for photographic reproductions. I always had a penchant for remembering what I read, and for reading a wide range of subjects in literature and history alike, which allowed me to date proof sheets or other materials discovered unbound and waiting to be priced. It helped that I spent long days at my stall dipping into every sort of book imaginable in between serving customers. The worthy bookseller must know not only the details of Spencer’s childhood but also the history of papyrus in ancient Egypt.
Most readers mistakenly believe books are creations of an author, fixed things handed down from high into their waiting hands. That is far from true. Think of the most interesting, the most alarming and brilliant choice made by a writer in literature; now consider that equally interesting, alarming, and brilliant maneuvers were made by people you will never hear about in order for that work to see the light of day. The path is never without obstructions, even more so when the publication proves influential or controversial. After years of keeping my stall, I grew more conscious of such hindrances. I noticed other shadows over the literary kingdom I had been too naive to see, and had occasion to encounter some of the denizens of these shadowlands: shameless autograph hunters and forgers, collectors who tried passing off third editions as firsts, publishers who gave false discounts and fabricated advertising costs, customs officials who sought graft on expensive editions imported from abroad. There is a verse I write in my notebook from memory once a year: “Though an angel should write, still ’tis devils must print, and you can’t think what havoc these demons sometimes choose to make.” Thomas Moore meant the printers’ devils, the name for those men with the thankless and tedious tasks of dwelling in a printing press. But the devil has taken many forms in our trade.
Among the various mischief makers and profiteers who have besieged books from time immemorial, there arose the bookaneers. Their origins go back to the first American laws to govern copyrights. That legislation, passed in 1790 by high-minded and arrogant legislators (the usual politicians, in other words), deliberately left works of foreign authors unprotected, which caused other countries to retaliate by withdrawing protection for American works. This opened doors to various kinds of pirates and black markets, European literature plundered by Americans and vice versa. Publishers did their best to shut those doors—at first. But you will find in life that greed for profits is too strong for even good men to resist.
In the new era—not just to publish, but to publish first and cheaply—the publishers had to find individuals with particular sets of skills who could obtain manuscripts and proof sheets through persuasion, bribery, extortion, and, at times, outright theft, then transport them from one country to another. After a while, the publishers and these covert agents expanded beyond trying to secure foreign books; assignments were handed out to spy on rival publishing houses and execute any errands that had to be accomplished out of view.
In short: a bookaneer is a person capable of doing all that must be done in the universe of books that publishers, authors, and readers can have no part in—must have no part in. Bookaneers would not call themselves thieves, but they would resort to almost any means to profit from an unprotected book. Take the pocket Webster’s from the bottom of my cart and open to “B”—it would go right there, between “book” and “bookish.” No, you will not find “bookaneer” in any dictionary, but pay attention and we will fill one in.
You wonder, no doubt, how from my modest perch as a keeper of a stall and a hunter of books I would have any view at all of such a shadowy crevice in the literary universe. I admit to feeding a special fascination with the subject from the first time I became aware of it. When an acquaintance would point out one of these bookaneers to me at a social club or hotel tavern around the city, a bolt of excitement would shoot through me. It was not the same sort of thrill as one’s first glimpse of a long-read author—in that case, a personal encounter usually renders the subject more human, but in the case of the bookaneers, who were by nature secretive and remote, an encounter inspires a rather opposite effect. Of course, my own dealings with bookaneers were rare and brief, and I would never have anticipated that was about to change.
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“I HAVE A BOOK for you.”
Those words reached my ears while I was pulling a wagon down a bumpy sidewalk from a storage room to my bookstall. I remember it as a hot and muggy afternoon. I protected the books from the humidity and sun with a light blanket. The man who addressed me had a confident gait and a wide build that commanded attention. I shielded my eyes from the bright sun for a better look. He had a bushel of red hair shooting out from under a formal hat, dancing eyes, and a thick but well-combed mustache.