{"product_id":"the-last-bookaneer-isbn-9780143108092","title":"The Last Bookaneer","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eFrom the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e–bestselling author of the \u003ci\u003eDante Club\u003c\/i\u003e, the story of an epic literary heist by a forgotten class of consummate criminals\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003ebook\u003c\/b\u003e′\u003cb\u003ea-neer′ (bŏŏk\u003c\/b\u003e′\u003cb\u003ekȧ-nēr′), \u003ci\u003en\u003c\/i\u003e. a literary pirate; an individual capable of doing all that must be done in the universe of books that publishers, authors, and readers must not have a part in\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e London, 1890—Pen Davenport is the most infamous bookaneer in Europe. A master of disguise, he makes his living stalking harbors, coffeehouses, and print shops for the latest manuscript to steal. But this golden age of publishing is on the verge of collapse. For a hundred years, loose copyright laws and a hungry reading public created a unique opportunity: books could easily be published abroad without an author’s permission. Authors gained fame but suffered financially—Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Robert Louis Stevenson, to name a few—but publishers reaped enormous profits while readers bought books inexpensively. Yet on the eve of the twentieth century, a new international treaty is signed to grind this literary underground to a sharp halt. The bookaneers are on the verge of extinction.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e From the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e–bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Dante Club\u003c\/i\u003e, Matthew Pearl, \u003ci\u003eThe Last Bookaneer \u003c\/i\u003eis the astonishing story of these literary thieves’ epic final heist. On the island of Samoa, a dying Robert Louis Stevenson labors over a new novel. The thought of one last book from the great author fires the imaginations of the bookaneers, and soon Davenport sets out for the South Pacific accompanied by his assistant Fergins. But Davenport is hardly the only bookaneer with a mind to pirate Stevenson’s last novel. His longtime adversary, the monstrous Belial, appears on the island, and soon Davenport, Fergins, and Belial find themselves embroiled in a conflict larger, perhaps, than literature itself.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e In \u003ci\u003eThe Last Bookanee\u003c\/i\u003er, Pearl crafts a finely wrought tale about a showdown between brilliant men in the last great act of their professions. It is nothing short of a page-turning journey to the heart of a lost era.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Last Bookaneer\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Matthew Pearl has a particular specialty: finding an obscure corner of 19th-century history and spinning from it literary fiction that is thought-provoking, enlightening, smoothly written — and a ripping good story to boot.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e | \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cu\u003eBoston Globe\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e: \u003cbr\u003e“[A] historical jigsaw puzzle of literary larceny, deception, and derring-do…[A] richly imagined account… The elite bookaneers were also vindictive, spiteful and viciously ambitious, and Pearl has buckets of fun exploring this world of thieves, spies, smugglers, and tricksters in detailed depth…Packed with bookish love and intrigue, THE LAST BOOKANEER winningly transforms what Pearl notes in his afterword as a ‘fragment of legal and publishing history’ into fictional magic.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeattle Times\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e“Matthew Pearl has a particular specialty: finding an obscure corner of 19th-century history and spinning from it literary fiction that is thought-provoking, enlightening, smoothly written — and a ripping good story to boot…[THE LAST BOOKANEER is] another bracing adventure set in the world of 19th-century literature lovers…Pearl is a demon researcher, but THE LAST BOOKANEER wears those studies lightly — there’s not a single dull lecture hall in sight. The author’s passion for detail, combined with his gift for balancing a leisurely pace with fast-moving action, makes for a deeply satisfying experience.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Maine Edge\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e: \u003cbr\u003e “One more example of [Pearl’s] ability to bring history’s people and places to vividly compelling life…Fast-paced and smart and thoughtful - an altogether outstanding read...Pearl has taken a relatively minor historical footnote and spun a thrilling, fascinating tale of literary intrigue. The richness of the backdrop – particularly the portrayal of Samoa – is textured and nuanced. The reader tumbles headlong into the world being created, borne across the land and sea by Pearl’s intricate narrative and expressive prose.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cu\u003eEveryday eBook\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e Fans of Pearl will love the journey in this latest historical thriller. The amount of time and effort that went into conducting the appropriate research is evident throughout the book and it brings to light an era of publishing that is as fascinating as it is unknown. In a time where digital media is changing the landscape of the publishing industry, this book reminds us that the means by which a story is delivered is not as important as what we take from it.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/u\u003e: \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An entertaining adventure tale steeped in literary history…[Pearl] offers many of the charms and unrushed distractions of a favorite old bookstore.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e“This swashbuckling tale of greed and great literature will remind you why Pearl is the reigning king of popular literary historical thrillers. His latest is guaranteed to delight lovers of history and mystery.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/u\u003e: \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In the days before e-books, self-publishing, and fan fiction, publishing was an even riskier undertaking—or so Pearl makes an entertaining case for in his latest, ingenious literary caper…Pearl gives the bookaneers a lively fictitious history…and populates it with a colorful cast of roguish characters…A loving testament to the enduring power of paper books.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003eBooklist:\u003c\/u\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Writing mischievously clever novels about famous writers is Pearl’s forte…Passionately researched and ebulliently imagined…Pearl’s vividly descriptive and energetically plotted novel churns and charms with intriguing literary history, acid social critique, witty dialogue, and delectably surprising and diabolical reversals and betrayals.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for THE DANTE CLUB\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003eJanet Maslin, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times: \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Working on a vast canvas, Mr. Pearl keeps this mystery sparkling with erudition... with this captivating brain teaser as his debut novel, seems also to have put his life's work on the line in melding scholarship with mystery. He does justice to both.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003eKimberley Strassel, \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e: \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Mr. Pearl's triumph is mixing these two cultures: wealthy, cultivated men of letters faced with the mysterious and seedy streets of a 19th-century Boston... creating not just a page-turner but a beguiling look at the U.S. in an era when elites shaped the course of learning and publishing. With this story of the Dante Club's own descent into hell, Mr. Pearl's book will delight the Dante novice and expert alike.\" \u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003eCarlo Wolff, \u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e: \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"How the club and the police compete and then converge is the mystery and the thrill in a preternaturally accomplished book as wise as it is entertaining. \u003ci\u003eThe Dante Club \u003c\/i\u003eis a carefully plotted, imaginatively shaped, and stylistically credible whodunit of unusual class and intellect... The writing is passionate, the narrative driven.\" \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003eDavid Lazarus, \u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003eThe San Francisco Chronicle: \u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"A hell of a first novel... \u003ci\u003eThe Dante Club\u003c\/i\u003e delivers in spades.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003eAdrienne Miller, \u003ci\u003eEsquire\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e: \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Audacious and captivating.\" \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003eJulie K. L. Dam,\u003ci\u003e People Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e (Page Turner of the Week)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e: \u003cbr\u003e\"Pearl, a graduate of Harvard and Yale Law School and a Dante scholar, ably meshes the literary analysis with a suspenseful plot and in the process humanizes the historical figures... A divine mystery.\" \u003c\/p\u003e | \u003cb\u003eMatthew Pearl \u003c\/b\u003eis the award-winning and bestselling author of the novels\u003ci\u003e The Dante Club\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Poe Shadow\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Last Dickens\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Technologists\u003c\/i\u003e. His books have been \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestsellers and international bestsellers translated into more than thirty languages. | \u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eI. Clover \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSome books are to be tasted, others are to be swallowed,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eand some few to be chewed and digested.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eFrancis Bacon\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, I suppose you never heard of such a creature.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eE. C. Fergins\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBack in my salad days laboring for the New York Central and Hudson River Railroad Company, I would always keep an eye out to see if he would enter our car before the hour of departure. “Expecting some pretty lass, are we?” the cook, grumbling with sarcasm, would ask me as I was scrubbing a table or polishing silverware to a blinding shine.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The man I would look for was given no more attention inside the cars than the bootblack or the traveling baker balancing his bread tray over his long arms. I suppose most people probably never looked at him long enough to take in his appearance. Middle-aged, middle-height, shaped like a plum, he had white metal-rim spectacles and a sharp nose and chin. His substantial and intelligent mouth was always busily readying itself for a smile, a song, or a whistle, or a shape of surprise. He would maneuver his bulky cart down the aisle of the train, a striped umbrella and his soft felt hat tucked above the top shelf of books. Reaching our dining car, he would push his bright green cart to me. Both of us had found the only man on the train who appreciated the\u003cbr\u003e other.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “My favorite customer,” he would cheer me on; then, leaning so far over his cart it might tip over: “What catches your fancy today, Mr. Clover?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My fellow dining car waiters liked to read novels about poor boys who become rich, or rich men who were secretly criminals. They turned the pages so rapidly the words were scenery, like the fields and farms that passed our windows for long stretches at a time. I was looking for something else in books. I could not really say what, but I think I can say why: a notion started in my own brain was probably wrong, but an answer read in a work of literature would be right. That was my conviction at nineteen, and only in later years would I come to trust myself over a book.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Despite Mr. Fergins’s kind words, I did not really qualify as a customer. My pockets were so empty I was the only one living in New York City who did not fear thieves. But the generous old bookseller would leave me a book of my choice before continuing through the cars. If the tables were cleaned and set early, I could read until I felt the floorboards shake underfoot with the rumble of the engine. Then I’d hurry to return the borrowed volume while helping to carry his cart off the train. As he stood on the platform when the train began to run, Mr. Fergins waved his handkerchief as if he were seeing off his son.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e In the village where I was born we did not have the variety of books that is only made possible by a bookstore or a circulating library. The local minister would give my mother books for me to read—black, thick, drab volumes meant to educate in menial or spiritual ways. Literature? I hardly even knew the word. My eyes were opened by an old, weathered copy of Milton I found when I was thirteen and the minister invited me to use his library. The poem was religious, but there was something new about it. The stories that I had heard so often in sermons were transformed by the poetry. They were made flesh and bone. It seemed I felt the tingling breath of Lucifer on the back of my neck, the light touch of Eve grazing against my arm, the expulsion not only of our first parents but of all the provincial boredom of my life. I cannot recall what questions I asked about \u003ci\u003eParadise Lost\u003c\/i\u003e, but it must have been clear to him I was interested in the poetry over doctrine, because the book disappeared. Five years later, when I accepted the first job that brought me away from country life, I think I knew however much I tried I would never truly feel at home in mammoth, steamfilled Manhattan, with its incessant gallop, but the books consoled me.They were everywhere you looked, in the front of shop windows, displayed on tables along the sidewalks, in brand-new public libraries as big as castles. Even inside train cars.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Mr. Fergins may have been uninteresting to others. A relic of a time much slower than 1891; to them, he was as ordinary as his clothes. But they could not see the real man: amiable and unassuming, humble; there was a meaningful quality to his reticence, something unspoken.\u003cbr\u003e He endured the usual rudeness and impatience faced by salesmen. Perhaps this explained his patience toward me. Just as he would never dismiss the tastes of the waiters who wanted their fill of “sensation books,” he never questioned my worthiness for steeper paths. Books could function in two different ways, he told me one time. “They can lull us as would a dream, or they could change us, atom by atom, until we are closer to God. One way is passive, the other animating—both worthy.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I am just a railway waiter,” I said once while lifting his cart down from the train. “No book in the world will change that.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He gave such a friendly, all-consuming laugh that I found myself laughing without wanting to, my heart sinking to the bottom of my chest as my eyes fell to the tulips painted on the cart. I suppose I’d hoped he’d argue.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Forgive me, my young Mr. Clover. I laugh only at your formula. Literature will not change our profession or the quality of hats on our heads, heaven forbid—by change, I mean another thing entirely.” He fiddled with his white spectacles. “Another thing . . .”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e ***\u003cbr\u003e But he did not finish speaking before the engine began to run and drowned him out.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Being a railway waiter means standing in place while the world moves around you. Because of us, instead of noticing that they had trapped themselves inside the belly of one of the most remarkable mechanical inventions of modern times, moving at speeds never before achieved, travelers could pretend that they were sitting in a dining room similar to their own. One evening around seven o’clock, on a popular route, our dining car teemed with people. There were frequently men and women of distinguished character, wealthy, well known, respected. On this occasion, there was a table on the far end of the car attracting stares that turned into stage whispers. I was too busy with my passengers to pay attention until Rapp, the waiter assigned to the table, grabbed my elbow. His skin was darker than mine, and he had greasy hair and a slight mustache waxed into crude points at each end, in imitation of our head cook.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He said: “You’re a bookworm, Clover.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “What about it?” I was in no mood for his teasing.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “No offense. Sensitive one, you are. Just that I’ve noticed that grim half-breed face of yours perks up when you’re talking to that queer peddler.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Rapp was just as much a half-breed as I was, as were all the railway k then, but I was more annoyed by how he spoke about my friend. “Mr. Fergins is no peddler.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Rambles through the cars hawking books, don’t he? Ain’t that a peddler? Besides, that ain’t what I wanted to say. Thought you’d fancy a look.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He gestured with a nod toward the table. There was a passenger, back facing me, his hair worn long with strands of white and silver. He sat at a forward angle over his meal of boiled leg of mutton with Parisienne potatoes as though he were driving a team of horses.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Mark Twain—Twain, the writer. Don’t you even know about the things you know about?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I had never seen an author in the f lesh. I had never \u003ci\u003econsidered \u003c\/i\u003eseeing an author in the f lesh long enough to think what I would do. Rapp’s half of the car remained busy, but my tables had begun to clear, and the chief cook called me over to help. After I was charged with a smoking tray of food for one of my tables, the cook opened the ice chest in the floor and pulled out a bottle of wine. It was for table sixteen. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I took a few deep breaths and crossed to Rapp’s side, where I turned to face one of my favorite authors, a half-dozen witty and clever sayings at the tip of my tongue. From under a wig of silver hair, a frightful old woman looked back up at me, f licking her long tongue over the white blur of her false teeth. “Heavens, what are you standing there for?” exclaimed the lady. “You can see I’m thirsty, boy. What kind of waiter are you?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My hands moist with hot sweat, the bottle slipped through my fingers. Shattered glass and splattered wine: the greatest fear of the railway waiter. All the occupants of the dining car were gaping at me and it seemed every last one joined Rapp’s laughter. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I could not bring myself to tell Mr. Fergins what had happened. A few days later, he was rolling his books through our cars and calling out his newest titles. I still felt the sharp sting of humiliation. Even minor embarrassment lingered a long time with me. I fell off a horse when I was seven years old, and some mornings in New York City, waking on my hard cot in a closet-like room, the shrill laughter of my former playmates rang in my ears.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The bookseller must have heard something of the practical joke, because he spoke to me in such a way that he might have been visiting my sickbed.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “There is no keeping a secret on a train,” I said, my eyes falling to my hands. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He tried an innocent smile, then frowned at himself for giving himself away. “Come. Any man could drop something on a moving train.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “One of the other waiters played a dirty trick. Said Mark Twain was in the dining car, and I believed it. I stupidly believed it.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “No, but Twain wouldn’t be traveling that route this time of year,” he began, then stopped himself, excusing the strange digression by clearing his throat. “Mr. Clover, you believed your unworthy associate’s statement because you are an honest man, and you expect honesty reflected back from the world. I have been known to be the same way.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “The worst part, Mr. Fergins, was not Rapp’s joke. It was how I felt when I saw it was not really him.” As I finished the statement, I realized with shame that there were tears in my eyes.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “You are always better off to read a book, anyway, than to meet the person behind it.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Why?” I asked of the peculiar reassurance. By the time he held out his handkerchief I had forgotten my own question. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Do you know why you are so upset?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I don’t, sir,” I admitted.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Let us think about it. Maybe it will come to you.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “No. I haven’t a clue why I have turned into such a baby over a silly prank, some broken glass, and an author who was never there to begin with. New York City is too hard, just as Reverend Millens warned.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Millens?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “My father,” I explained, telling the bookseller more in two words than I would ever reveal to the other waiters or the fellows in my tenement. “Well, I never knew he was, until I was thirteen. His church helped bring my mother to the village when she was a girl during the war, and then she assisted him in the work of arranging for others to come there. We could not be in his congregation, of course, but he would leave me books when I was a boy and, later, would let me pick them for myself. Sometimes I could hear his sermons from inside the library, which was above the chapel. When I told him I wanted to leave, he warned me the city would be too much for me, that it would be hard enough for a white man.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “New York is hard for everybody; that is what makes it what it is. You know, Mr. Clover, when most people read a book, they take from its story happiness and strife, good and evil, morality and sin, so on and so on. That is not what is most important. It is always in the parts that we cannot fully understand—the holes in a story, the piece missing—where the real truth of the thing lurks.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I shrugged, not seeing the point.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “There may come a day when you will understand what you are grieving today. Then the story you just told about Mr. Rapp’s loathsome prank will have another meaning, and be more important to you than an actual encounter with a so-called genius. Then you will think back and say, ‘Mr. Fergins was a true friend.’”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He seemed to guess I was most concerned at the moment about whether he would judge me for crying; he patted my arm reassuringly, which helped, and I sat back and listened to his wonderful descriptions of the latest books, as if he were offering up new and better lives. He even read me part of Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” with all its stormy rhythms. \u003ci\u003eWe were the first that ever burst\u003c\/i\u003e—as I listened, I felt as though his words were the winds and they were driving us on—\u003ci\u003einto that silent sea\u003c\/i\u003e. In later years, this would be one of my happiest memories of my time as a railroad man.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e New York City was so expensive that on only six or seven dollars a week (depending on gratuities) my chief amusement besides reading had to be to walk the island from end to end and watch. Watch the wealthy families stepping up into extravagant four-horse chariots, watch the vendors in the crowded quarters of hardworking Chinese or Germans. Everyone, the wealthiest or poorest, seemed to be in a hurry, but not I, not when I was away from the railroad. My mother’s cousin had a stable for police horses, so I saw him once every few months, but mostly he would have me help tend to the horses. From time to time I would encounter the bookseller in the city. I was so accustomed to seeing Mr. Fergins on his rounds through our train, I marveled the first time I saw the man with the roar of the city around him—but there he was, bent over his green cart, pushing it through the streets as though he had done so for all eternity. On one particular day, I was passing through the uneven streets of the lower portion of the city, studded with mansions of bygone eras that had turned into warehouses as the wealthy were building estates closer to the park. It was growing late, the brick buildings tinted a peaceful orange by the sun, when he appeared, struggling over the dents and breaks in the sidewalk. I rushed to help.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “My poor legs rejoice for you, young Clover,” he said, his face wet and pink with effort. “I purchased this cart from a florist—that is why there are tulips painted on one side—and sometimes I think of what it would be like filled with bouquets. Nothing in the world—not a ton of bricks—feels as heavy as books being moved.” He pointed our way into a boardinghouse. It was a modest wooden structure near the slow, dark river that separated New York from New Jersey. Well-dressed and well-bred gentlemen boarders occupied the sitting room. Pushing the\u003cbr\u003e cart into Mr. Fergins’s chambers on the ground floor, the umbrella tumbled from the top shelf.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e As I retrieved it, I noticed it was misshapen, with the general form of a banana, and there was a stain on the striped fabric of the umbrella, a dark red, perhaps rust. The bookseller seemed embarrassed by its condition and tucked it back into the cart. “Always rolling off . . .” he apologized. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I was amazed by the sheer number of volumes of all kinds of bindings, colors, and sizes wherever my eyes traveled. Every conceivable space on any table or shelf and much of the f loor was claimed by piles about the height of a tall man’s knee, with a wobbly wooden ladder that\u003cbr\u003e could be wheeled around. Mr. Fergins, his energy restored, mounted this with an athletic step that propelled him to the tops of the highest peaks. There were strong fumes of oil, too, though not nearly enough light to read the titles of the books without putting your face against them.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Now I see how you can boast such a wide selection in your cart.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Oh, no. These are not books that I sell on the train cars or in the street, dear boy. I have a pair of storage rooms two streets away for inventory.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Oh?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “These are books and folios I collected, starting long before I had my own stall in Hoxton Square in London. Much of it was purchased from the stock of bankrupt publishing firms, private libraries, auctions, sometimes junk dealers who were too ignorant about books to know what they had in front of them. Go on, do look around for yourself. These books have witnessed life and death.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I laughed at the grave proclamation until I saw he was contemplative and serious. I made my way through the great maze of books, careful not to brush any binding with my coat. Interspersed with the familiar names of literary greats lurked mundane, interchangeable titles such as \u003ci\u003eManual of Bibliography\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBibliographers’ Manual\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eAmerican\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eBibliography\u003c\/i\u003e. There was a shelf of humorously titled books such as \u003ci\u003eDrowsy’s Recollections of Nothing \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eHistory of the Middling Ages \u003c\/i\u003ethat were not books at all, but rather imitation volumes Mr. Fergins had purchased from a public auction at the country home of the late Charles Dickens, who commissioned the false books to conceal a door in his library. I stopped to examine some books resting above these.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Have you ever read it?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I was looking at about half a dozen books with the same title: editions of Mary Shelley’s \u003ci\u003eFrankenstein\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Read \u003ci\u003eFrankenstein\u003c\/i\u003e? No, sir. Reverend Millens would have barred it from coming near his library. I have never seen it with my own eyes, actually. Is it a proper book?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “After Sir Walter Scott read it, he wept, for he knew that even \u003ci\u003ehe\u003c\/i\u003e, the finest writer in the history of Scotland, could never write a romance as original as a twenty-one-year-old girl had done. Does that answer your question?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I was not sure it had. “Scott I’d borrow from a friend and smuggle it inside my house. That and Stevenson.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “There is nothing as lovely as a borrowed book. Those two Scottish geniuses’ books share a particular quality—I mean Scott and Stevenson. When you begin to read them, you feel like a boy again, and when you close the book you’ve turned into a better man.” Mr. Fergins went on, smiling and extending his arms wide, as though to embrace the room: “Now that you have made a closer inspection, what do you think is the single most valuable book in here?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I told him I could not guess.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Try.” The warmth of the room made his forehead bead with sweat and his spectacles slip down the bridge to the pointy tip of his nose. He seemed so pleased at the idea of me picking out a book. Not wanting my ignorance to shine through, I took my time to weigh my choices, then selected a large volume bound in heavy black calf leather.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Excellent. That is one of the first folios of Shakespeare, but it is sadly incomplete. You see?” He brought it to a desk—where there was just enough free space between stacks of books to open the big volume—and showed me that pages were missing before pointing out other imperfections that remained invisible to me after he described them. “I purchased this for just two hundred shillings from the estate of a deceased lawyer in London some four years ago, and it is worth at least three hundred and fifty. Can you believe that? More remarkable than any original edition of Shakespeare is the fact that today for a shilling you can buy a fantastic modern edition of Shakespeare’s greatest plays. No, this is not one of my gems, but it is a clever guess, Mr. Clover. Now, hand me that one, if you please—yes, the second shelf down, two-thirds of the way across, the one that looks like a scared kitten who has been dragged from a river by its scruff.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It was a small, worm-eaten thing. He waited for my assessment.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “It appears to me to be a collection of poems,” I said. “It is in tatters, I’m sorry to report, Mr. Fergins. It is missing a title page, which I suppose ruins the ability to resell it. And on top of that, it has been defaced—there is writing in pencil on many of the pages.” Words had been circled, underlined, drawn over with arrows into the margins, where there were illegible markings.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Good, good. That is a volume of John Donne’s poetry. It is not a first edition, nor a rare one, and the thing presents no particular features of bibliographical interest. Yet, in my estimation, that would be worth in today’s market more than a thousand dollars.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Why?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Because this copy belonged to Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Those marks you noticed written in pencil are the notes Coleridge made on Donne’s poems. Imagine! It is the real power of a book—not what is on the page, but what happens when a reader takes the pages in, makes it part of himself. That is the definition of literature. It reminds one of the quote from Francis Bacon about books.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I did not know the quote, never having read Bacon. But I was too timid to ask that or much else as he paraded me through the rest of his temple of books and excitedly showed me his favorites. He taught me what “signatures” could be used to identify a first edition, and how to most efficiently compare editions of the same books for changes and imperfections. He showed me books that other collectors or sellers had tried to repair only to further injure the edges of the papers, a problem, he explained, that booksellers referred to colorfully by saying the book\u003cbr\u003e had been “bled.” He discussed prices of the books, contrasting what he paid with the actual or current value. I was flattered because his tone suggested I, too, could learn a trade in books if I desired. But it was disorienting to hear these names—Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Scott, my own sacred Milton—coupled with the crude sounds of numbers. “Now, if you remember only two things from my lessons, promise me it will be these: do not follow the latest fashions of Parisian collectors, and never pass up the chance to buy a book of English poetry dated before 1700.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I promise, Mr. Fergins.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Through all of this, a small but persistent clicking sound could be heard, then another simultaneous clicking over the first. The bookseller let out one of his sudden laughs. Imagine an old wolf howling for the last time before lying down to die, and there you have his memorable style of laugh. “You are looking around for a clock, I take it. 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