Shelf Hatred

The public is often an intrusion on the book trade. This, according to a dealer writing for the Guardian.

From the story...

There's no end of adventures at book fairs, most of them both delightful and instructive. I came back from New York in April feeling a bit like a girl in an Amsterdam window who'd had a few good days: richer no doubt, but a bit shagged out. After a couple of months off, we dealers reunite in June, more in hope than economic expectation, at the London Antiquarian Book Fair at Olympia.

I, of course, had a terrific time. I revelled in the company of my fellow dealers, adored and was instructed by my customers, met with the public in my usual spirit of curiosity and good fellowship. But, a few booths away, one of my dealing colleagues was in a state of obvious misery, and his sighs of discomfort and occasional groans of misery could be heard halfway across the Exhibition Hall.

Concerned, I wandered over. He looked terrible, grey and sweaty, clearly in considerable psychological distress.

"I can't take any more," he moaned.

"More of what?" I asked, in my most caring voice.

"Dealing with the bloody public. They drive me mad!"

I have never suffered from this affliction, and asked for some details.

"Categories," he said, "they fall into different categories. I could compose a bloody taxonomy of the pathology of the book collector, but it would certainly be the last thing I'd ever do. It would rupture my spleen, or my heart if I had one anymore."