got to be sure, and the
only way to be really sure is to have a bibliography on the
book in question. In that shining moment the bibliography
pays for itself five times over. Bibliographies are not for
casual browsing or for bathroom reading. They are filled
with all the technical jargon, symbols, and shorthand of
the trade. The good ones are written by people with demons
on their backs. Accuracy and detail are the twin gods, and
the bibliographer is the slave. A bibliography will tell
you if a book is supposed to contain maps or illustrations,
and on what pages these may be found. It will describe the
binding, will often contain photographs of the book and its
title page, will even on occasion— when this is a
telling point—give a page count in each gathering as
the book was sewn together. If a printer makes an
infinitesimal mistake—say the type is battered on a
d
on page 212, say the stem is fractured ever so slightly,
like a hairline crack in a skier’s fibula—it
becomes the bibliographer’s duty to point this out.
It matters little unless the printer stopped the run and
fixed it: then you have what is called in the trade a
point. The bibliographer researches relentlessly: he gets
into the printer’s records if possible, trying to
determine how many of these flawed copies were published
and shipped before the flaw was discovered. Those copies
then become true firsts, hotly sought (in the case of hot
books) by collectors everywhere.
Bibliographies are among the most expensive books in the
business. A struggling book dealer on East Colfax Avenue in
Denver, Colorado, can’t possibly buy them all when
the asking price is often in three figures, so you pick and
choose. I remembered when the Grayson book was published:
it was announced with a half-page spread in the
AB
, an ad that promised everything you ever wanted to know
about the Grayson Press. I had torn out the ad and stuck it
in the book when it arrived. The title was
The Grayson Press, 1947-1969: A Comprehensive
Bibliography
, by Allan Huggins. The blurb on Huggins identified him as
the world’s top Grayson scholar and a collector of
Grayson material for more than twenty years. The book
looked substantial, one for the ages. It was thick, almost
eight hundred pages, and it contained descriptions of every
known book, paper, pamphlet, or poem ever issued by the
Graysons. It had come in a signed limited edition at $195
and a trade edition at $85. To me it was a working book. I
took the trade edition, and now, as was so often the case,
I was damn glad I had it.
It was divided into four main sections. First there was
a narrative biography of Darryl and Richard Grayson. This,
combined with a history of their Grayson Press, took sixty
pages. The second section was by far the biggest. It
attempted the impossible, the author conceded, to catalog
and annotate every scrap of Grayson ephemera, all the
broadsides that the brothers had printed over a
twenty-two-year career. This consumed more than four
hundred pages of incredibly dense copy. The third section
was called “Grayson Miscellany”: this contained
the oddball stuff—personal scraps, Christmas cards
(the Gray-sons had for years printed their own cards,
charming pieces that, today, are eagerly sought), special
announcements, trivia. Even the commercial jobs they had
taken on—posters, menus for restaurants, brochures
for the Oregon Fish and Wildlife Department —all the
unexciting ventures done purely for cash flow, are now
avidly collected by Grayson people. There would never be a
complete accounting: a fire had destroyed the printshop and
all its records in 1969, and it’s probably safe to
say that previously unknown Grayson fragments will be
turning up for a hundred years.
It was the final section, “Grayson Press
Books.” that was the highlight of the bibliography.
Grayson
Massimo Carlotto, Anthony Shugaar