Allan Milkerit, 1945-2007

E.L. Doctorow, An Open Letter to the President

Midwest Booksellers for Social Responsibility, nd.

One sheet, folded in half. A reprint of an essay addressed to the first President Bush that appeared in the Jan. 7, 1991 issue of The Nation magazine, just as allied forces were preparing to take back Kuwait in Operation Desert Storm. Doctorow argues that Bush should not fight Iraq just because he has amassed the troops to do so. He favors a siege, which would hasten Saddam's downfall: "All we have to do is stand here silently, in our armor, and watch it happen." Doctorow was wrong about the Gulf War, but his arguments applied a decade later. 

Only one copy online, from Waverley, for $200. "Certain to prove a stopper for many Doctorow collections," the bookseller notes. Perhaps, but how many Doctorow collections are out there? Allan had one -- this is unpriced because he had it at home. Doctorow had something of a comeback with The March, his 2005 Civil War novel, but otherwise his recent books have not generated much excitement in the collecting or the reading community. 

The ABAA Fair

Guest post from Joe Marchione, Allan's former partner and the proprietor of Shelf Indulgence Books:

A couple of weeks have passed since the big ABAA fair was in town and I feel bad. No, not for any business-related reason. Sure, I didn't get much dealer traffic through the store. Certainly nothing like the old days. But I understand that. Expect it, even. Dealers can't scout stores the way we used to. With Internet pricing at every bookstores' fingertips, the days of scouting for bargains are pretty much history. And even if you think you've found a bargain, you quickly discover that what once was uncommon now is not. At best, you scout for specific wants for known customers. Perhaps regional needs. No problem. I get that.

No, I feel bad because with the passing of each ABAA fair, I am reminded of the first time I ever got really mad at Allan. I was in the right. I was sure I was right. Until I realized I wasn't. So I offer this apology. An apology of the worst kind. A posthumous apology.

It was mid-February ... ABAA in SF so it had to be an odd year. Not '99. Maybe '01 but given the economic downturn and the changing buying habits, '03 seems most likely. We had our usual free passes from Bolerium. Allan must have covered the store on Friday because, well, Friday was always Allan's day to cover the store, at least as long as I had known him, through Tall Stories and our place. So I went to the fair on Friday. But I understood that in the world of booksellers who might drop by the store, I was Valhalla Lite. Did the show, looked at books, maybe even bought a couple. Showed my face and, of course, answered the Allan questions at each booth. "Oh, he's at the store ... probably be by on Saturday or Sunday."

Saturday morning, I showed up at the store and shared my fair finds and stories, let him know folks were looking forward to seeing him. He looked up from his computer in what I immediately recognized as full pout mode and said "Well, if they wanted to see me, they should have come by the store." Arms crossed. Head back.

"I'm not going." Uh-oh. I've seen that stubborn streak before. I try to explain what I am sure he knows already: Maybe if you go chat 'em up, remind them you're here, they'll drop by next week.

Then I made a serious tactical error. While making excuses for 'em ... They're traveling, setting up... They're busy.... I hear myself saying something about the Serendipity party on Wednesday, a day-long affair that all the booksellers go to. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I'm trying to figure out a way to collect the sounds waves and stuff 'em back in. But it is too late. Here it comes: "They have time for *that*" (I'm not sure how you spit out a word that starts with "th" but I can assure you he managed). His position in the chair even stiffer. Arms crossed tighter. I mumble a feeble joke about the free food at Serendipity and that's why the booksellers but he's having none of it. "Nope, not going."

All right. How are we going to do this? Let's try reason. "Allan, you *have* to go. Just to show your face. No big deal." Nothing. I'm getting pissed. "Dammit, Allan. This is important." Nope. I'm not sure which one of us was more shocked with what happened next. Out of nowhere, I find myself kicking one of the desks. Hard! Actually hurt my foot (though I'd be damned rather than let on). I soften. "Allan, you're the best book scout in the Bay Area. You need to go."

That got him. I didn't say it with the intent of getting to him. It was a statement of fact. He mumbled something about not being the best but the facade was cracking. He ended up going. No dealers stopped by at the shop after the show. But he had done his responsibility. And I thought I had done mine (remember, we had 3 or 4 dealers exhibiting in the store at that time... it wasn't only for me or him that I felt this was important).

Flash forward to this year and it's Sunday morning of ABAA weekend. The last place I want to be is the fair. I dragged my ass there anyway, remembering how I had shamed Allan into going. And I enjoyed myself. Saw some interesting books. Touched base with folks I hadn't seen in awhile. But at some point early in the day, I realized it wasn't about drumming up business. That train left the station a long time ago.

Sorry, Allan. I shouldn't have been so pissed. I shouldn't have kicked the desk. You were right. You shouldn't have gone if you didn't want to. I was wrong. Dealers will show up or not as they're time and buying prospects allow. You can't shame them into visiting anymore than I should have shamed you into going to the fair. But more than that, you were right to pout. Because it wasn't about the business, the dollars.

That Sunday at the fair, I looked at dealers who had not been in my shop for 6-10 years and I realized that I just wanted to show off the store. A lot had changed since Allan and I displayed together and I'm proud of the ambiance I created here. Since I'm not in Allan's league when it comes to finding books, I just wanted to show off the shop a little. Not every other year but maybe once a decade.

See, now I'm pouting... more like a whine... not exactly Grand Cru but a whine nonetheless. For you, the showing off would have been in the books you found. A better payoff assuming they bought something. A bigger hurt if they didn't. But I understand wanting to have the chance.

Ironically, I ended up getting a couple of folks dropping by the store the following weeks. No dealers but some regular customers who had seen me wandering the Concourse. Some of them I hadn't even noticed at the fair. But they saw me and dropped by the store. Some even spent some money, not that this is about money anymore. Just a bit of human contact. And a chance to say "Hey, this is what I think I can do well ... I hope you like it .... for my sake and yours."

Charles G. Finney, The Unholy City

Vanguard, 1937.

Charles G. Finney was one of those oddball writers who casually produce idiosyncratic masterpieces that endure far longer than whatever the mainstream was celebrating at the moment. He was a Midwestern boy -- the great-grandson of a celebrated Congregationalist evangelist, he was born in Missouri in 1905  -- who somehow ended up serving in the U.S. Army in China during the 1920s. The clash of civilizations compelled him to produce The Circus of Dr. Lao (1935), the tale of ordinary citizens of a small Arizona town confronted with genuine marvels. They come away unimpressed, but not unchanged. Finney's first book, it captured something essential about the American soul.

Unfortunately he had little else to say, which this follow-up two years later amply proves. Circus was published by Viking, with playful Artzybasheff illustrations that added amply to its lure; Vanguard, a lesser house, issued this volume with an unadorned jacket. The author refused to speculate on the meaning of Circus, but the whole rear jacket of Unholy City tries to entice the reader with his explanations: "The symbolism, of course, is quite conventional. The airplane crash is the awakening to life; the Chiam Mings the first chaotic impression of cruelty and beauty; the path from the lily-bed to Calle Grande the change from simplicity to complexity." Etc. The first twenty pages did not cause me to want to go on.

Finney became a newspaper copy editor in Tucson, dying there in 1984. He wrote just a handful of books, including a memoir of his Chinese days. There is only one copy of Circus online in anything close to fine condition, for $550. There are dozens of copies of Unholy City. This one, price-clipped and a little dirty but basically fine, is priced at $60 in another hand and $40 by Allan. He had it for years and if still alive would have it still.

Postscript: Allan specialized in Finney. I remember for years there was a signed copy of Circus without a jacket on the shelves. And I think I got my inscribed copy of Finney's third book, Past the End of the Pavement (Holt, 1939), from the store. That book is clearly autobiographical, two boys on the loose in a Midwestern town before World War I. Finney writes on the back of the jacket that Circus "is regarded as a freak" while Unholy City "is quite definitely a flop." But he winningly adds that, "I enjoyed writing them, and I imagine if I were to read them over again I would enjoy that, too."

Second postscript: Finney has been blessed with good illustrators. I had completely forgotten that I had bought long ago -- in May 1988 -- from Serendipity a copy of the UK edition, published by Grey Walls in 1948. It was illustrated by Gordon Noel Fish, and quite effectively. I paid $37.50. You'd have to pay more than that now, but the English edition is not nearly as scarce as the American. Further proof that you should always buy the best copy of the best edition.