The Last Bookaneer Read Online Free PDF

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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    â€œ 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.
    A glance told me the book in his hand was not mine, for I make it a point to know every one of my volumes on sight. “Not one of my collection, but I thank you nonetheless.”
    â€œI have this book”—the red-haired fellow said more slowly, revealing a wide gap between his front teeth on both the bottom and top, then held it close to me with both his hands—“for you , Mr. Fergins.”
    With that, he let the book drop spine-first to the sidewalk, where it tumbled into the street. I hurried to pick it up before it could be trampled or knocked into the gutter. By the time I stood again, he was gone. I could not help but wonder if this stranger had known that I would never