“No, it’s true; I shouldn’t buy it.  But I’m lousy at business, which is why I’m a bookseller.  If I wanted to get rich, I’d sell drugs or something.”

She laughed, startled; he went on.  “I’m in it because of the stories — the ones about the books as much as inside the covers.  This Thackeray set, for instance:  One day, twenty years from now, a collector will wander in and see it.  I’ll tell him the story of Tauchnitz the publisher, and he’ll be fascinated — the whole tale of the great linen factories of Bohemia, this curious series of English books printed in Germany, the international (more…)

“…It’s lovely, beautifully if plainly bound, has some historical interest, and is worth about eighty bucks.  Which means I pay forty.”

She blinked.  “But my uncle told me it was a great treasure — that he was…”  She was shocked; clearly she’d expected a lot more.

“He was wrong, I’m afraid,” the bookseller said as kindly as he could manage.  He had himself fallen in love with the little set, even though he knew it would never sell.  “The trouble with genuinely rare books is… well, they’re rare.  You’ll probably never see more than a couple in your entire life; I’m in the business, and I’ll only (more…)

“…and a three-volume edition of Pendennis, by Thackeray; second printing.  Rebound recently — and very well — but printed first in Liepzig, of all places, back in 1849.”  The young man turned from his computer screen to confront his visitor, who was by now visibly bored.  He sighed, but slogged on.

“Like most of these, it’s old, but not particularly valuable.  The true first edition (more…)