In a rural area, you'll find books for sale in unexpected places. Like the "hidden kitchens" featured in the NPR series, hidden bookstores offer nourishment off the beaten path.

In the Four Corners area--where Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona meet--you'll find bookshelves squeezed in near the coffee machine at the Dolores Market (pictured at left) in Dolores, Colo. (population 920). If you're looking for a copy of a 1931 issue of Hound & Horn, they've got one. Just down the road in Mancos, Colo. (population 1,261), the Absolute Bakery & Café offers books along with baked goods. That's where I once picked up a museum exhibition catalog on the work of Navajo folk artist Alfred Walleto. Then there's sunny, book-lined Comb Ridge Coffee, located in a former trading post in Bluff, Ut. (population 300 or so).

Books: like coffee and groceries, they're a staple. What's your favorite hidden bookstore? Let us know.

Just a day shy of Halloween, Quirk Classics announced the next classic monster "mash-up." Drum roll please... Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls. Billed as a prequel to the bestselling Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, the book will follow Elizabeth Bennet as she begins her ninja training.

 

For anyone following Quirk (read about P&P&Z or Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters in our September digest), the announcement is slightly surprising; I was hoping they would pick a new classic author, instead of relying on Jane Austen again. Personally, I really enjoyed P&P&Z, but then again, as an Austen fan, I'm partial to P&P in the first place. The second Quirk Classic contained slightly more silliness - the publisher actually changed the formula from 85 percent "real" text to 60 percent - and that made it less appealing to me, but it will probably engage more teenaged readers. Both are national bestsellers, so they must be doing something right.

 

The publisher has also revamped the Quirk Classics website, and it is definitely worth a look, very Indiana-Jones-meets-rare-book-room.

While I was at the Golden Gate Park Book Fair Sunday, I answered a lot of questions for those who visited my booth. I'm used to the typical questions asked at book fairs about old books, rare books, and bookselling. What I wasn't expecting was this question from three people who were wandering the fair together:

"Would you mind if we took a picture of that book?"

"Uh . . . I guess not. Sure, you can take a photo of it."

A few minutes later they were still wandering through the booth taking pictures of many of my other books.

I tried to figure out if they were bloggers, like me, who might be posting the pictures of the books in a post about the fair. Or, perhaps they loved the books and didn't have the cash to buy them so they thought a photo would suffice.

Since the four of us were squeezed in my tiny, 8?? x 10?? booth, I eavesdropped on their conversation. I know I shouldn't have, but I was curious (and maybe just a little bit uncomfortable) about why they would want to take so many photos of my books.

"Oh my God! Did you see this one? Quick! Get a picture of it."

"Check this one out!"

"Someone please tell me why don't we still make covers that look like this one! This title is hilarious."

Paranoia began to take over. What if they wrote a blog post about how not to sell books and used pictures of my books and my booth as examples? Or what if they were booksellers and what if they used images of my books to sell their own?

Paranoia is an ugly thing. One's imagination can make one's thoughts entirely irrational.

I couldn't stand by and smile silently any longer.

Finally, I said, "So, do you mind if I ask why you're taking pictures of so many books?"

"Oh. Sure. We're book designers. We work for Chronicle Books. We're at the fair to get inspiration."

What a relief!

"Take as many pictures as you like to inspire you," I told them.

I had to laugh.

When I was in college (aeons ago), I spent every summer vacation and winter break working as an intern for Chronicle Books. Back in 1987 it was a very small (I think about 15 or 20 employees) company owned by the same family who owned The San Francisco Chronicle. I loved working there. I used to take the train to the City every day and walk through the (then) gritty neighborhood to the office at Fifth and Folsom. As an intern, I rotated to different departments, sometimes working for Operations, sometimes working for Editorial, and sometimes working for Publicity. The people there were nice and took time to teach me things about publishing. Though I didn't work there after college, I still remember the people I met there and the days I spent there with fondness. It's fun and flattering to think that some of the books I'd chosen to retail for my own business might be providing inspiration to a former employer.

It's also nice to know that in this era of digital books and cheaply made mass-market paperbacks some book designers are looking to the past to design the future.

See you in the stacks!

---

I hop off my bicycle as I pull in to Oxford, a tiny town on Maryland's eastern shore. It's my first visit but I'm quickly confused by what I see. The sun is cascading down through the orange and red leaves of trees huddling up in a park by the edge of the Tred Avon River. Beyond them, cruise ships and sail boats on the Chesapeake Bay slide their way between celestial blue seas and skies. Behind me, bed-and-breakfasts with white picket fences dot the street leading to a ferry but they, like most of the restaurants, seem devoid of people.

I am carefully wading out of a sea of boxes full of books and portable book cases strewn across my dining room/office to give you a full report on this past weekend's Golden Gate Park Book Fair, held in the Hall of Flowers in San Francisco's beautiful Golden Gate Park. After that, I'll have to dive back in until all the books are put back on the shelves again.

The Golden Gate Park fair was the first one I have done (and I've done nine fairs in the two and a half years I've been in business) where there was a long line of people waiting to enter when the doors opened. The fair's organizer did a great job getting the word out about the time and location of the fair. In addition to the bibliophilic crowd were the many people who were out and about walking through Golden Gate Park on a beautiful (75 degree) Sunday who were likely drawn in by curiosity and by the free admission. The aisles were filled with people from opening until closing time. Having occasionally done a fair where the aisles are so empty the booksellers could have used them as golf fairways, the sight of so many people at a book fair made me so happy.

That said, I would characterize the customers at this fair as readers and book lovers but not necessarily book collectors (with a few exceptions, of course). What that means is I sold a lot of books, but the books I sold were in the $10-$25 range, books which are usually overlooked at the larger fairs with paid admission. What that also means is that there were many people in attendance who were like me several years ago. That is to say that I heard comments ranging from, "I never knew old books could be so beautiful!" to "Why would anyone pay $100 for an old book?" to (my personal favorite because I said it myself when I "discovered" the world of antiquarian books), "Why didn't I know these type of books existed before today?"

There are a couple of ways booksellers view such potential customers. Some might refer to such book fair attendees as "looky-lou's" because the person looks at the books and perhaps comments that they're lovely but doesn't buy any of them. Another bookseller might call such a customer a "tire-kicker". This usually refers to a book lover who browses the books for sale, takes one off the shelf and then handles the book, often rather, er, exuberantly, perhaps opening it too far or bending pages when turning them. Such a customer usually has little or no experience handling old books. I've seen their book-handling methods make booksellers twitch.

The third way, and the way I think most booksellers assess such book fair visitors, is to see this as an opportunity to expose people to the world of antiquarian books, to book collecting, and to the fun of seeking and finding the perfect book. I was very impressed with the way so many people asked questions about the books -- "How old is this one?" "How do I know if it's a first edition?" "Why is this book considered significant?" "How do I learn to do this?" Before I was a bookseller, I often attended fairs but NEVER asked questions unless I planned to buy a book. I was way too intimidated by either the books' usually high prices or by the sometimes silent manner of the booksellers.

Yep. I was a "looky-lou". I am officially ashamed to say that I did not have the self-confidence to ask questions so I could learn more. Now I still need to learn even more, but I've learned not to be afraid to ask questions. Many booksellers are so happy to have someone to talk to about books that they are thrilled to answer your questions. And if you find a rude seller, might I suggest trying again at another booth? While there are a few who genuinely seem to dislike people, most booksellers love to talk about books and are happy to talk to you at a book fair.

Once I observed that most of the people at this particular fair were not going to be buying rare books, I took the opportunity to explain to them why they might want to do so in the future and why it is so fun to build a collection in any field (not just the "expensive book" field) and how to go about doing so.

By the end of the day, I sold more than half of my book case filled with $10 books and had sales of a few more expensive books. I did make a profit, though smaller than my average for larger fairs, but I also think I may have attracted a few more potential book collectors (maybe even booksellers?) to the trade and that is always a good thing.

I bought a few interesting titles, and I hope to show those to you soon. Buying books and discovering new stock is another of the many benefits of book fairs.

Would you believe that in my rush to leave the house for the fair I forgot my camera? Sorry to say I did. I would have liked to show you pictures of my booth and of the bright, light-filled Hall of Flowers.

I have to run now, but tomorrow I'll tell you about the mysterious customers who asked if they could photograph the books in my booth.

See you in the stacks!

Last week, an email popped up in my inbox that contained a 15-minute video tour of the Bienes Museum of the Modern Book (in Fort Lauderdale, FL). For some reason, putting the word "museum" with the word "book" sends my brain off toward a memory of a cartoon I saw - in the New Yorker, perhaps? - that depicts two futuristic museum-goers puzzling over an object in an exhibit case, until one of them says, "I think it's a book."

 

I was intrigued enough to watch the whole video, which was pretty cool. It showcases both the collection and the facility. So you can see books and objects from the museum's strongest collections: ABC books, pop-up books, comics, books created by WPA writers and Florida writers. You also can tour around the reading room, exhibit space and vault. What impressed me most was how the video producers thought to include the behind-the-scenes processes, such as cataloging and preservation.

 

Is there a difference between a "museum" and a special collections department or library? There doesn't seem to be many book "museums," in the U.S. Even the other three that come to mind have a slightly different focus. I invite readers to add to my list.

The Eric Carle Museum of Picture Book Art

The Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art

The Karpeles Manuscript Library Museums

When I tell people that I live in Utah now, the first thing they ask is, Do you ski? After I explain that I'm in the other Utah, the red rock canyon country in the southern part of the state, I also put in a plug for Salt Lake City's great book-related resources. They include the Marriott Library at the University of Utah, Ken Sanders Rare Books, and Sam Weller's Zion Bookstore.

Books new and old are in the spotlight this week at the Utah Book Festival, October 21-25 in Salt Lake City, presented by the Utah Humanities Council. On Saturday, October 24, the events at the fabulous Main Library, aka the City Library, include:

• 1:30 pm: Rare Books Roadshow with booksellers Ken Sanders and Tony Weller. Bring your items for evaluation, or just enjoy the show.
• 3 pm: Allison Hoover Bartlett, author of The Man Who Loved Books Too Much: The True Story of a Thief, a Detective, and a World of Literary Obsession, in conversation with Ken Sanders.
• All day: book arts workshops and demos presented by the Book Arts Program at the Marriott Library.

For details see the festival calendar. And then, if you can tear yourself away from the book festival, I'd recommend a hike. This is Utah, after all.

Who knew C.G. Jung was a talented rubricator? From 1914 to 1930, the famous psychologist worked on what he believed would be his greatest work, The Red Book. The topic was psychotherapy, and he illustrated the volume with more than 200 illuminated pages, paintings and calligraphy.

 

Alas, it remained unpublished and unknown to all but a few devout followers. Until yesterday. W.W. Norton & Co. published a 404-page facsimile edition and translation of Jung's magnum opus, complete with color illustrations that the publisher likens to a "Book of Hours." According to the publisher's website and Amazon.com, the book, which retails for $195, is already out of stock.

That old saw that book collectors like to recite that "anything can be anywhere," can, quite honestly, waste a lot of your time.  I think that's one reason that sites like AbeBooks and Biblio.com have become so popular -- they are, if nothing else, efficient.

I have also noticed -- and I don't know if it is just me -- that flea market books are decidedly less interesting.  It has been awhile since I've found anything of note in such a place.  I think the access to price data on used books has greatly reduced the chances of finding something noteworthy.

But I keep looking, and if nothing else, I will occasionally find something of interest to me personally, even if it is not particularly valuable. 

This past weekend, for example, with a little extra time on my hands while in Greenville, NC, I decided to duck into an "antique" store to look around.  This involved actually parking the car, and I was torn about stopping in the first place.  When I entered, I was greeted promptly with, "We close at 5."

"What time is it now?" I asked.

"It's five 'til five," the clerk responded.  Should I turn and leave or give it a quick walk-thru.

"I'll just be a minute," I said.  With no books in sight, this wouldn't take long, but about two minutes into my efforts, I spotted five or six books, which, even from a distance, I could tell were an assortment of old college yearbooks.  As I stepped closer, two were titled Yachety Yack, which I recognized as the yearbook of the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill.  I can't say why I knew that, exactly, since I never attended there, but my father had, and perhaps he had mentioned it along the way.  I pulled the books out, and what struck me first was how much thinner the 1942 yearbook was than the 1941.  World War II, of course, had drained so many of the college boys away from campus in just a single year.

Although my father had never purchased a college yearbook -- he professed to being too poor for one -- I realized that with him having been born in 1920, he was almost certainly among the students in one of these books.  Sure enough, among the junior class in 1941, he was there -- nineteen or twenty years old, looking younger than I had ever seen him.  When you stare into a photograph of a parent in their youth, you really open a floodgate of emotions. You know this person hadn't yet thought of you -- hadn't thought perhaps about much of anything. 

I quickly looked through the 1942 yearbook, but of course, my father was not there.  He had gone to war, as I knew he had, and although he later became a doctor, he would never return to Carolina to finish his undergraduate degree.  After the war, I suppose, everything was different.

I bought the yearbook, of course -- $35, which was overpriced but yet a bargain to me.  I made the store clerk happy that she had waited a few extra moments, and for myself, I understood all over again the value of a book.

Sometimes we book lovers lament the state of the printed book. Will it be overtaken by electronic media? Why are so many booksellers closing their shops? Why are libraries using valuable floor space, once the real estate province of books, for computers? Everywhere we look, it seems that fewer and fewer care about the printed book.

But if we take the time to look closely, we can find those who dedicate their lives and livelihoods to books. They're out there. Here's one example:

For those of you bibliophilic readers who live in the Bay Area or are planning a visit here, be sure to schedule some time to visit San Francisco's newest addition to the preservation of book history: The American Bookbinders Museum.

Founded by Tim James of Taurus Bookbindery, the museum and all it holds was featured in a recent article in the San Francisco Chronicle. You can read it by clicking here. The museum and its website have interesting exhibits of and information about equipment, manuals, documents, bookbinders, and endpapers.

Those of you interested in bookbinders' tickets, the little stickers and tags often found on the endpaper of an old book, should feast your eyes on the collection at the museum.

I haven't had a chance to visit here myself, but I plan to go soon. The museum is located in San Francisco at 1962 Harrison Street and is open 12-4pm on Saturdays or by appointment. Admission is free. The phone number is (415) 710-9369.

See you at the museum!