avevale_intelligencer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
avevale_intelligencer) wrote2005-08-24 04:28 pm
avevale_intelligencer) wrote2005-08-24 04:28 pm
Entry tags:
Snippet
Actually he used to run several, one after the other, seriatim as it were. He was never very good at it; but then, that was never his aim, and to give him his due, he was never compelled to go out of business.
At his peak, he had a modest shop in central London, a short tube ride from the Club With A Nail In It, with a fairly wide-ranging stock and attractive layout. Watching the people in his shop was his chief pleasure. He used to say that people were never so open to scrutiny as when they were engrossed in looking at someone else’s books, and somehow he managed to do it without them ever noticing.
After he had watched a browsing customer for a while, he would sometimes approach them and offer them a free book: any one book from the shelves, completely free. This unconventional approach would frighten off some people. Others would become suspicious, and one man asked him if he was selling something. “Well, yes,” Jilt said, gesturing around at his stock. Those who took him up on his offer would be asked to fill in a small card with their name and address, which they could reclaim on making a purchase. Jilt would keep the card for six months, and at the end of that time, if the customer had not reappeared, would write them a polite and unassuming letter, reminding them of the shop’s existence and wondering if they would care to call again. He would then destroy the card.
The books he gave away he bought himself, and for a little while he managed to break even. There were, of course, those who took the most expensive book they could see and were never seen again; there were those who got their friends to come in and ask for “my free book” (Jilt would explain gently that it was a “discretionary promotion” and then, after much deliberation, offer them a floridly-covered romance novel). Some, though, took the gift in the spirit in which it was intended, and returned to buy, and buy again. I always got the feeling, though, that Jilt would have much preferred to give away all his books to those people.
“But what about the publishers and the printers and the binders?” I said. “Don’t they deserve to get paid?”
“I expect they get paid anyway,” Jilt said, “at least the people do. The company could stand to lose the price of my stock.”
“But suppose everyone did the same thing?”
“My dear boy,” Jilt said, wide-eyed, “you don’t seriously suppose every bookseller is as stupid as me, do you?”
But he never did: and when he sold the shop and returned his stock to the publishers, for a fraction of its cost, I believe far more of it was destroyed than resold. This made Jilt very unhappy: he felt that even the vilest political tract or the feeblest potboiler was a unique creation, and the destruction of books was a blow to his heart. After that, he confined his activities to second-hand books, and gave them out freely whenever and to whomever the fancy took him, and became much happier.
At his peak, he had a modest shop in central London, a short tube ride from the Club With A Nail In It, with a fairly wide-ranging stock and attractive layout. Watching the people in his shop was his chief pleasure. He used to say that people were never so open to scrutiny as when they were engrossed in looking at someone else’s books, and somehow he managed to do it without them ever noticing.
After he had watched a browsing customer for a while, he would sometimes approach them and offer them a free book: any one book from the shelves, completely free. This unconventional approach would frighten off some people. Others would become suspicious, and one man asked him if he was selling something. “Well, yes,” Jilt said, gesturing around at his stock. Those who took him up on his offer would be asked to fill in a small card with their name and address, which they could reclaim on making a purchase. Jilt would keep the card for six months, and at the end of that time, if the customer had not reappeared, would write them a polite and unassuming letter, reminding them of the shop’s existence and wondering if they would care to call again. He would then destroy the card.
The books he gave away he bought himself, and for a little while he managed to break even. There were, of course, those who took the most expensive book they could see and were never seen again; there were those who got their friends to come in and ask for “my free book” (Jilt would explain gently that it was a “discretionary promotion” and then, after much deliberation, offer them a floridly-covered romance novel). Some, though, took the gift in the spirit in which it was intended, and returned to buy, and buy again. I always got the feeling, though, that Jilt would have much preferred to give away all his books to those people.
“But what about the publishers and the printers and the binders?” I said. “Don’t they deserve to get paid?”
“I expect they get paid anyway,” Jilt said, “at least the people do. The company could stand to lose the price of my stock.”
“But suppose everyone did the same thing?”
“My dear boy,” Jilt said, wide-eyed, “you don’t seriously suppose every bookseller is as stupid as me, do you?”
But he never did: and when he sold the shop and returned his stock to the publishers, for a fraction of its cost, I believe far more of it was destroyed than resold. This made Jilt very unhappy: he felt that even the vilest political tract or the feeblest potboiler was a unique creation, and the destruction of books was a blow to his heart. After that, he confined his activities to second-hand books, and gave them out freely whenever and to whomever the fancy took him, and became much happier.
no subject
:) :) :)
*hugs*
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It is borne in upon me that after spending thirteen years in the book trade I should remember that booksellers buy their stock from the publisher, so it would be no skin off the company's nose if Jilt had given away his entire stock. I can only plead advancing age and extreme tiredness. :)
no subject
Just a few random twiddlings on a keyboard and you create an entire concerto and then shrug when asked who wrote it. At least this time you admitted it.
I can *taste* the dusty air in that shop, and see the shelves (half old bookcases he'd bought at auction, and the other half wooden shelves originally meant for tool-shop stock. And it was dry as a bone in there, and alwaysw arm because of the paraffin stove he had in the far corner.
And he almost always knew what stock he had -- he jsut wasn't sure *where* exactly he'd shelved things.
I miss you -- and I miss this sort of sub-creation, "putting seeed corn in the ground".