Lynne Patrick
Spring has finally sprung, complete with daffodils, many of them at last, waving in the stiff breeze – the proverbial March winds have arrived a month late – and dark murmurings about digging the lawnmower out of the back of the garage.
It arrived over the weekend, announcing its presence somewhat soggily; apparently when warm air moves in to oust the cold, the consequence is rain. We were on the road, en route for and back from a family weekend, and a minor detour in each direction took us to a little piece of heaven on earth for book lovers: a small town called Hay-on-Wye, which holds the UK’s biggest literature festival over ten days every May, and where every other shop is a bookshop all the year round.
Mostly secondhand books, but books nonetheless. I’m not safe to be let loose with a debit card in a bookshop of any kind; I confess I bought, and not just one or two. Twice.
The hours we spent there passed in a golden haze. I think lunch figured at some point, but I don’t remember much about it. At the cash desk I simply handed over the plastic and filled my shopping bag with the loot. It wasn’t until I arrived home and examined my haul in detail that I found there was comparatively little I need to apologize for to living authors. So buying secondhand isn’t necessarily a sin. Though blog-followers may think differently, of course; I’ll try to duck the hail of verbal bullets.
Buying secondhand can be like buying from the supermarket discount shelves, or worse, from a remainder shop when the title is still in print. I try not to do the latter, though I have succumbed to temptation on a very few occasions. The former I admit to. Mea culpa as many times as you like, and I don’t suppose it really makes it any better that I only buy books by people for who writing is a lucrative day job in that way. Many of my favourite authors aren’t in a position to give up whatever day job pays for food and shelter and shoes for the kids, and I figure if I pay full price in a real bookshop for their books, their publishers will be shamed into continuing to pay decent royalties, and the whole bookshop concept will survive the onslaught of Amazon for a little longer.
So how did I justify the foot-high stack of secondhand paperbacks I stowed away on our return yesterday afternoon? The big question, of course, is, can there really be any justification for not buying new and ensuring the author gets his/her rightful cut, or am I just making excuses? Let’s see.
Six were by dead authors, and I’m pretty sure two of them have been dead long enough for the books to be out of copyright, so it’s unlikely they’d receive royalties anyway.
Of the other four, two were by my late dear friend Douglas Hill – and believe it or believe it not, they were the first books of his that I’d ever seen on bookshop shelves. Libraries occasionally, and nearly six years after his untimely demise he’s still up there on Amazon. But never before in a bookshop. I don’t think royalties paid to his estate would benefit anyone in great need; so how could I resist?
That left five authors who, to my knowledge, are alive and well. Three of the books are early titles which by any non-online route aren’t easy to come by.
Which leaves two. One is by an author who I’m hoping will become one of my Names to Look Out For, and I’m pretty sure my daughter will like it as well. Can we call that one an investment? The other... well, I have a feeling the movie won’t be long, so maybe the author won’t miss the sixty pence or so he won’t be getting from me. And I do have several of his other books, all bought new and at full price.
Am I making excuses? In need of forgiveness from authors everywhere? Or just a hopeless book addict who can’t walk emptyhanded out of a shop whose shelves groan with goodies and exude that inimitable and habit-forming aroma of well-loved paper and print?
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