The Last Bookaneer Read Online Free PDF Page A

my awning on a hot or rainy day. In fact, readers too poor to make a purchase had been known to come to my stall every afternoon for two weeks until a novel was finished.
    My parents never recovered from my dropping out of the law. Once, I overheard them speaking in their garden, my mother remarking to my father that at least I had my books—I will never forget how these words sounded in her voice. “At least he has his books,” as though without them I was nothing. They always blamed my reading, you know, for my having fewer friends than my brother and for my weak eyes, never thinking that because I had weak eyes and because I was shy, having a book at the ready rescued me.
    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