Showing posts with label rare books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rare books. Show all posts

Friday, June 1, 2018


Episode 9 of the
Quills and Cliffhangers podcast

is now available on 

iTunes
and Stitcher.


We are thrilled to announce that we have located a copy of the rare and wonderful 1911 book, Nonsense Novels, by Stephen Leacock.

This Canadian author was one of the most popular humorists of the early 20th century.  His work amused and inspired many people, including the great master of absurd comedy, Groucho Marx.


Nonsense Novels is a collection of Stephen Leacock’s parodies of ghost stories, historical romances, and other literary genres. Here is an excerpt from his famous satire of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes:


Maddened by Mystery: or, The Defective Detective
by Stephen Leacock
The great detective sat in his office. He wore a long green gown and half a dozen secret badges pinned to the outside of it.
Three or four pairs of false whiskers hung on a whisker-stand beside him.
Goggles, blue spectacles and motor glasses lay within easy reach.
He could completely disguise himself at a second's notice.
His face was absolutely impenetrable.
A pile of cryptograms lay on the desk. The Great Detective hastily tore them open one after the other, solved them, and threw them down the cryptogram-shute at his side.
There was a rap at the door.
The Great Detective adjusted a pair of false black whiskers and cried,"Come in."
His secretary entered.
"Ha," said the detective, "it is you!" He laid aside his disguise.
"Sir," said the young man in intense excitement, "a mystery has been committed!"
"Ha!" said the Great Detective, his eye kindling, "is it such as to completely baffle the police of the entire continent?"
"They are so completely baffled with it," said the secretary, "that they are lying collapsed in heaps."
"So," said the detective, "and is the mystery one that is absolutely unparalleled in the whole recorded annals of the London police?"
"It is."
"And it is connected, I presume, with the highest diplomatic consequences, so that if we fail to solve it England will be at war with the whole world in sixteen minutes?"
His secretary, still quivering with excitement, again answered yes.
"And finally," said the Great Detective, "I presume that it was committed in broad daylight, in some such place as the entrance of the Bank of England, or in the cloak-room of the House of Commons, and under the very eyes of the police?"
"Those," said the secretary, "are the very conditions of the mystery."
"Good," said the Great Detective, "now wrap yourself in this disguise, put on these brown whiskers and tell me what it is."
The secretary whispered in the ear of the Great Detective: "The Prince of Wurttemberg has been kidnapped."
The Great Detective bounded from his chair.  A prince stolen! Evidently a Bourbon! The scion of one of the oldest families in Europe kidnapped. Here was a mystery indeed worthy of his analytical brain.
His mind began to move like lightning.
"Stop!" he said, "how do you know this?"
The secretary handed him a telegram. It was from the Prefect of Police of Paris. It read: "The Prince of Wurttemberg stolen. Probably forwarded to London. Must have him here for the opening day of Exhibition. 1,000 pounds reward."
So! The Prince had been kidnapped out of Paris at the very time when his appearance at the International Exposition would have been a political event of the first magnitude.
With the Great Detective to think was to act, and to act was to think.
Frequently he could do both together. "Wire to Paris for a description of the Prince."

The secretary bowed and left.
There was a loud rapping at the door.
There entered the Countess of Dashleigh. She was all in furs.
She was the most beautiful woman in England. She strode imperiously into the room. She seized a chair imperiously and seated herself on it, imperial side up.
She took off her tiara of diamonds and put it on the tiara-holder beside her and uncoiled her boa of pearls and put it on the pearl-stand.
"You have come," said the Great Detective, "about the Prince of
Wurttemberg."

"Wretched little pup!" said the Countess of Dashleigh in disgust.
So! A further complication!  The Countess denounced the young Bourbon as a pup!
"You are interested in him, I believe."
"Interested!" said the Countess. "I should rather say so. Why,
I bred him! and I've got 10,000 pounds upon his chances, so no wonder I want him back in Paris.”

The Countess resumed her tiara.
She left.
The secretary re-entered.
"I have three telegrams from Paris," he said, "they are completely baffling."
He handed over the first telegram.
It read:
"The Prince of Wurttemberg has a long, wet snout, broad ears, very long body, and short hind legs."
The Great Detective looked puzzled.
He read the second telegram.
"The Prince of Wurttemberg is easily recognised by his deep bark."
And then the third.
"The Prince of Wurttemberg can be recognised by a patch of white hair across the centre of his back."
The two men looked at one another. The mystery was maddening, impenetrable.
The Great Detective rose.
He wrapped himself in a long black cloak with white whiskers and blue spectacles attached.
Completely disguised, he issued forth.
For four days he visited every corner of London. The search proved fruitless.
Two young men were arrested under suspicion of being the Prince, only to be released.
The identification was incomplete in each case.
One had a long wet snout but no hair on his back.
The other had hair on his back but couldn't bark.
Neither of them was the young Bourbon.
Still undismayed, the Great Detective made his way into the home of the Countess of Dashleigh. Then at last a clue came which gave him a solution of the mystery.
On the wall of the Countess's boudoir was a large framed engraving.
It was a portrait.
Under it was a printed legend:
THE PRINCE OF WURTTEMBERG
The portrait was that of a Dachshund.
The long body, the broad ears, the unclipped tail, the short hind legs—all was there.
In a fraction of a second the lightning mind of the Great Detective had penetrated the whole mystery.
THE PRINCE WAS A DOG!!!!
He summoned a passing hansom, and in a few moments was at his house.
"I have it," he gasped to his secretary. "The mystery is solved.
I have pieced it together. By sheer analysis I have reasoned it out.
Listen—hind legs, hair on back, wet snout, pup – eh, what? Does that
suggest nothing to you?"

"Nothing," said the secretary; "it seems perfectly hopeless."
The Great Detective, now recovered from his excitement, smiled faintly.
"It means simply this, my dear fellow. The Prince of Wurttemberg is a dog, a prize Dachshund. The Countess of Dashleigh bred him, and he is worth some 25,000 pounds in addition to the prize of 10,000 pounds offered at the Paris dog show. Can you wonder that——"
At that moment the Great Detective was interrupted by the scream of a woman.
The Countess of Dashleigh dashed into the room.
Her face was wild.
Her tiara was in disorder.
Her pearls were dripping all over the place.
She wrung her hands and moaned.
"They have cut his tail," she gasped, "and taken all the hair off his back. What can I do? I am undone!!"
"Madame," said the Great Detective, calm as bronze, "I can save you yet."
"You!"
"Me!"
"How?"
"Listen. This is how. The Prince was to have been shown at Paris."
The Countess nodded.
"Your fortune was staked on him?"
The Countess nodded again.
"The dog was stolen, carried to London, his tail cut and his marks disfigured."
Amazed at the quiet penetration of the Great Detective, the Countess kept on nodding and nodding.
"And you are ruined?"
"I am," she gasped, and sank to the floor in a heap of pearls.
"Madame," said the Great Detective, "all is not lost."
He straightened himself up to his full height. A look of inflinchable unflexibility flickered over his features.
The honour of England, the fortune of the most beautiful woman in
England was at stake.

"I will do it," he murmured.
"Rise dear lady," he continued. "Fear nothing. I WILL IMPERSONATE
THE DOG!!!"

That night the Great Detective might have been seen on the deck of the Calais packet boat with his secretary. He was on his hands and knees in a long black cloak, and his secretary had him on a short chain.
He barked at the waves exultingly and licked the secretary's hand.
"What a beautiful dog," said the passengers.
The disguise was absolutely complete.
The Great Detective had been coated over with dog hairs. The markings on his back were perfect.
Next day he was exhibited in the Dachshund class at the
International show.

He won all hearts.
The Great Detective took the first prize!
The fortune of the Countess was saved.


Wednesday, March 21, 2018


Episode 7 of the
Quills and Cliffhangers podcast

is now available on 


and Stitcher.




Recently we found a lovely vintage edition of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë.   Charlotte and her sisters, Anne and Emily, grew disillusioned with the limited career opportunities available to 19th century women.  They decided to write novels, in the hope of earning their living as authors.  When Charlotte published Jane Eyre in 1847, it is unlikely that she foresaw her novel becoming a megahit that remains in print more than 170 years later.

This classic story combines the traditional romance novel with Gothic elements of the supernatural.  The atmosphere of the story varies from lively and upbeat to somber and eerie.  Occasionally, when the heroine peeks around a corner in a creepy old manor, the reader wonders if a ghost will appear.

Here is an example from Jane Eyre’s new life as a governess:

Thornfield, my new home after I left school, was, I found, a fine old battlemented hall, and Mrs. Fairfax, who had answered my advertisement, a mild, elderly lady, related by marriage to Mr. Rochester, the owner of the estate and the guardian of Adela Varens, my little pupil.
It was not till three months after my arrival there that my adventures began. One day Mrs. Fairfax proposed to show me over the house, much of which was unoccupied. The third storey especially had the aspect of a home of the past--a shrine of memory. I liked its hush and quaintness.
"If there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall this would be its haunt," said Mrs. Fairfax, as we passed the range of apartments on our way to see the view from the roof.
I was pacing through the corridor of the third floor on my return, when the last sound I expected in so still a region struck my ear--a laugh, distinct, formal, mirthless. At first it was very low, but it passed off in a clamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every lonely chamber.
"Mrs. Fairfax," I called out, "did you hear that laugh? Who is it?"
"Some of the servants very likely," she answered; "perhaps Grace Poole."
The laugh was repeated in a low tone, and terminated in an odd murmur.

The heroine, Jane Eyre, is blessed with remarkable inner strength and the courage to speak her mind.  This story is about her quest for freedom, financial independence, and a safe environment in which she can love and be loved.

While pondering an offer of marriage from her cousin, the heroine anguishes over the role of women in Victorian society. 

I could not help it; the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the corridor of the third story, backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and solitude of the spot, and allow my mind’s eye to dwell on whatever bright visions rose before it—and, certainly, they were many and glowing; to let my heart be heaved by the exultant movement . . . and, best of all, to open my inward ear to a tale that was never ended—a tale my imagination created, and narrated continuously; quickened with all of incident, life, fire, feeling, that I desired and had not in my actual existence. It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquility: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than mine, and millions are in silent revolt against their lot. Nobody knows how many rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.

Jane Eyre falls in love with a handsome, broodingly secretive man named Rochester.  The conclusion of the story reveals that she has achieved a state of equality with her husband, a startling concept in the 19th century.

I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely blest—blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband’s life as fully as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am: ever more absolutely bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh. I know no weariness of my Edward’s society: he knows none of mine, any more than we each do of the pulsation of the heart that beats in our separate bosoms; consequently, we are ever together. To be together is for us to be at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other is but a more animated and an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him, all his confidence is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in character—perfect concord is the result.

The Quills and Cliffhangers Podcast is available on 
iTunes, Stitcher, and CastBox.




Tuesday, February 27, 2018














Recently we acquired a first edition printing of Fables in Slang by George Ade, published in 1899.  The stories in this collection are so entertaining, so over-the-top, that we decided to share a few of them with you.

*          *          *


George Ade is often compared to Mark Twain.  Both men were born in the Midwest in the 19th century and wrote for newspapers as young men.  Gifted with wit and humor, the two authors enjoyed long and celebrated careers.  However, while Mark Twain’s books are still in wide circulation, the works of George Ade are not as well known today.  Nevertheless, George is finding a new audience among 21st century readers due to his gently satirical – and timeless -- take on life and relationships.

Released in 1899, Fables in Slang became a bestseller.  One of the first things I noticed about the stories is that George capitalized many nouns, and sometimes verbs, for no apparent reason.  This peculiar habit adds to the silliness of the stories.

George also had an efficient and quirky way of describing characters and their predicaments, in a few, quick strokes of the pen.  

Here is an example from…

THE FABLE OF THE SLIM GIRL WHO TRIED TO KEEP A DATE

THAT WAS NEVER MADE

Once upon a Time there was a slim Girl with a Forehead which was Shiny and Protuberant, like a Bartlett Pear. When asked to put Something in an Autograph Album she invariably wrote the Following, in a tall, dislocated Back-Hand:

"Life is Real; life is Earnest,
And the Grave is not its Goal."


That's the kind of a Girl she was.
In her own Town she had the Name of being a Cold Proposition, but that was because the Primitive Yokels could not Attune Themselves to the Views of one who was troubled with Ideals. Her Soul Panted for the Higher Life.
Alas, the Rube Town in which she Hung Forth was given over to Croquet, Mush and Milk Sociables, a lodge of Elks and two married Preachers who doctored for the Tonsilitis. So what could the Poor Girl do?
In all the Country around there was not a Man who came up to her Plans and Specifications for a Husband. Neither was there any Man who had any time for Her. So she led a lonely Life, dreaming of the One—the Ideal. He was a big and pensive Literary Man, wearing a Prince Albert coat, a neat Derby Hat and godlike Whiskers. When He came he would enfold Her in his Arms and whisper Emerson's Essays to her.
But the Party failed to show up.

*          *          *

George Ade wrote these fables during the Industrial Revolution.  People were leaving farms and small towns and moving to big cities.  In this era, women gained more independence, education increased in importance, and opportunities to build fortunes abounded.  George’s writing reflects this dramatic change in the American way of life.

His stories are typically short and energetic.  Just as they’re getting started, suddenly they’re over.   Perhaps our great-great-grandparents liked their entertainment in short sound bites, just as we do today.  In the tradition of Aesop’s Fables, George tacked a moral onto the end of each story.  The moral might make sense…and then again, it might not.  

Most of the stories flow very well, considering how long ago George wrote them.  The American English language has evolved just in the past decade; imagine the changes wrought by nearly 120 years!  It’s inevitable that some of his references are a tad obscure, so the modern reader has to interpret the author’s meaning from the context of the sentence, the paragraph, and the entire story.  These fables are therefore like a game, a verbal maze with twists and turns.  

The next story I would like to share with you is about an obsessive baseball fan.  Considering that baseball was invented only about fifty years before this story was written, the sport already had loyal, rowdy fans who could talk about nothing else.  

And now…

THE FABLE OF THE BASE BALL FAN 

WHO TOOK THE ONLY KNOWN CURE


Once upon a Time a Base Ball Fan lay on his Death-Bed.
He had been a Rooter from the days of Underhand Pitching.
It was simply Pie for him to tell in what year Anse began to play with the Rockfords and what Kelly's Batting Average was the Year he sold for Ten Thousand.
If you asked him who played Center for Boston in 1886 he could tell you quick—right off the Reel. And he was a walking Directory of all the Glass Arms in the Universe.
More than once he had let drive with a Pop Bottle at the Umpire and then yelled "Robber" until his Pipes gave out. For many Summers he would come Home, one Evening after Another, with his Collar melted, and tell his Wife that the Giants made the Colts look like a lot of Colonial Dames playing Bean Bag in a Weedy Lot back of an Orphan Asylum, and they ought to put a Trained Nurse on Third, and the Dummy at Right needed an Automobile, and the New Man couldn't jump out of a Boat and hit the Water, and the Short-Stop wouldn't be able to pick up a Ball if it was handed to him on a Platter with Water Cress around it, and the Easy One to Third that ought to have been Sponge Cake was fielded like a One-Legged Man with St. Vitus dance trying to do the Nashville Salute.
Of course she never knew what he was Talking about, but she put up with it, Year after Year, mixing Throat Gargle for him and reading the Games to him when he was having his Eyes tested and had to wear a Green Shade.
At last he came to his Ninth Inning and there were Two Strikes called and no Balls, and his Friends knew it was All Day with him. They stood around and tried to forget that he was a Fan. His Wife wept softly and consoled herself with the Thought that possibly he would have amounted to Something if there had been no National Game. She forgave Everything and pleaded for one Final Message. His Lips moved. She leaned over and Listened. He wanted to know if there was Anything in the Morning Papers about the Condition of Bill Lange's Knee.
Moral: There is a Specific Bacillus for every Classified Disease.


The Quills and Cliffhangers Podcast is available on iTunes and CastBox.


Tuesday, February 20, 2018






Anatole France: 
The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard

Recently I found an intriguing old novel entitled: The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard.  It’s an antique hardcover book, published in 1918, with a substantial 310 pages. 

When I picked up this book, I realized that, although I recognized the name of this famous writer, I had never read his books.  I decided that it was time to explore the life and work of the celebrated author, Anatole France. 

*          *          *

Anatole France was born in Paris in 1844.  He grew up surrounded by books, for his father owned a bookstore. Upon graduation from school, Anatole helped his family run the business.  This immersion in the thoughts of great authors from an early age no doubt inspired him to build a writing career of his own.

Photographs of Anatole in his middle age show him attired in a dark, elegant suit, after the fashion of the late 19th century.  The spark of energy in his eyes reveals that he is thinking about something intriguing.  Even his dapper mustache has a personality of its own; in some portraits, the waxed tips spring away from his face like pointing arrows.

Anatole became a prolific author.  He received the Nobel Prize in 1921, three years before his death at the age of 80.  He had a robust personal life as well, including two marriages and a number of dramatic love affairs.


Anatole’s stories have survived the test of time. Many writers, including George Orwell of 1984 fame, have praised his writing as classic and suspenseful.

How fortunate that of all the books written by Anatole France, I happened upon his very first novel, The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard.  This book marked Anatole’s transition from a poet to an author of fiction.


This book was published in 1881, when Anatole was 37 years old. The story is about a man named Sylvestre Bonnard, an elderly, kind-hearted historian who lives with his cat in a home filled with books.  (That sounds rather autobiographical, doesn’t it, knowing that Anatole’s father owned a bookstore.)


The plot is about Sylvestre’s journey from Paris to Sicily in search of a rare medieval book called The Golden Legend.  During his travels, Bonnard commits a crime to help a young woman in distress. 

What better way to read Anatole’s first novel than in a hardcover edition printed a century ago?  This charming antique book practically transports us back in time, to the era of horse-drawn carriages and steam-powered engines.

*          *          *

Anatole is fondly remembered for his many witty sayings about life and love.  Here are 10 of his most famous quotes:

Number 10:  To accomplish great things, we must not only act, but also dream; not only plan, but also believe.

When I hear words like “plan” and “accomplish”, I think of the core principles of project management.  (For example, setting measureable goals and tracking progress.)  I believe that Anatole is reminding us of Step One in project management: all accomplishments spring from an idea, a wish…in his words, a dream.  To bring your dream to life, you must believe in yourself.


Number 9:   Existence would be intolerable if we were never to dream.

Ah, that word “dream” again.  Here Anatole explores the concept that life should consist of more than one’s mundane day-to-day tasks.  To live our lives fully, we must have hope, and that hope manifests itself in our dreams.


Number 8: One thing above all gives charm to men's thoughts, and this is unrest. A mind that is not uneasy irritates and bores me.
This is a theme in numerous stories published between the 1880s and the end of the 1920s.  F. Scott Fitzgerald’s protagonists often exclaim, in an amusing manner, that they’re bored.  If you’ve read This Side of Paradise, The Great Gatsby, and Bernice Bobs her Hair, you know what I mean.  Fitzgerald’s people are desperate for someone interesting to walk in the door and liven things up.  
Jules Verne’s characters, as well, simply can’t sit still.  They must do something big and bold, often on a whim, like travel around the world in 80 days or explore the oceans in that new-fangled contraption called a submarine. 

Robert Louis Stevenson also crafted marvelous page-turning adventure stories by answering the question, “And then what happened?” 

Just like our great-great-great grandparents, we seek the company of people – in real life and in fiction – who are gifted with lively minds that entertain us.


Number 7:  The greatest virtue of man is perhaps curiosity.

This observation ties into Anatole’s previous comment about having an “uneasy mind.”  It is our curiosity that leads us to develop scientific theories, discover medical breakthroughs, and explore the stars.

Number 6: An education isn't how much you have committed to memory, or even how much you know. It's being able to differentiate between what you do know and what you don't.

Anatole’s comment reminds me of the famous saying that a college degree is a license to learn. 

Number 5: Nine tenths of education is encouragement.
How fortunate we are, as we travel through life, to meet many people who help us to learn, build, grow, and achieve.


Number 4:  It is human nature to think wisely and act in an absurd fashion.
Anatole shrugs off out-of-character behavior with his usual charm.  I will leave it up to you to imagine what bizarre things 19th century people could have done to earn the label “absurd.”

Number 3: If fifty million people say a foolish thing, it is still a foolish thing.

In the 1500s, people believed that lemmings fell from the sky during storms.  (Yes, lemmings.  The same little creatures that are rumored to jump off cliffs.)   It doesn’t matter who invented this absurd story.  I can visualize Anatole twiddling the edges of his sleek mustache, rolling his eyes, and advising us to think for ourselves.

Number 2:  Until one has loved an animal a part of one's soul remains unawakened.
In The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard, the hero owns a cat.  Or, as any cat owner will tell you…the cat owns him.

Let’s conclude this list with this breathtakingly panoramic statement from the immortal Anatole France:

Number 1:  The truth is that life is delicious, horrible, charming, frightful, sweet, bitter, and that is everything.