Not very readable ... an auctioneer holding a first edition. Photograph: Garry Weaser
One of the most pleasant things about my recent return from a long trip abroad has been the fact that I'm once again surrounded by all of my books. In a sense, it feels like I've come back to a cosy external wing of my own head. It's reassuring to have all that potential knowledge once again to hand - not to mention all the enjoyment that the volumes can provide.
What's more, as Anthony Powell only half-mockingly put it, "books do furnish a room." My shelves may be in a bit of a mess, and they're definitely overloaded, but they look pretty good to me.
Oddly enough, however, while it's the abundance and homely crack-backed shabbiness of my books that generally appeals, my favourite section of shelf space is the least populated. This relatively empty corner is the one where I keep my few old books and two treasured Hemingway first editions, covers facing out in all their bright 1940s and 50s glory: crisp, immaculate and (as far as I know) completely unread.
I love these editions, and they're treasured gifts, but even so, I am aware that such fetishisation of books as objects is rather daft.
To an extent I can justify the pleasure I take in them. I like the idea that because they're editions published in their lifetimes, there's more of a chance that the writers had some input into the design. What's more (as is certainly the case with my Jonathan Cape Hemingways) those designs can often be lovely. Even so, in my rational mind - where books are just meant to be read and objects are only useful as tools - there isn't much space for first editions.
The thing that strikes me as most ridiculous about first editions (or first printings, if we're being as anally exact as many of their collectors) is that they should be worth so much more than other almost identical versions of the same book. Very often all that distinguishes a valuable first printing from a near worthless second is one small digit on the title page.
It's a strange way of distinguishing worth and there's something unappealing about the way book collecting prioritises the rarity of a book over its contents or even its appearance. Not to mention the fact that physical condition is given far more importance than the pleasure a book has imparted to its readers.
This naked capitalism of the book-dealing world was revealed to me at its most obscene when I did a quick search for first editions on eBay while thinking about this blog. More than half of those that came up were by Kurt Vonnegut. Speculators were attempting to profit from his death only a matter of days after the sad event.
I like the idea of writers' deaths encouraging people to revisit their books. There's something especially reassuring about the way literature can preserve something of the author's spirit and I'm all in favour of someone as wise and compassionate as Vonnegut getting as many new readers as possible.
However, selling off such collectors' items so shortly after a writer has cashed his final cheque strikes me as a bit much. Whereas a cheap paperback is all potential - ready to gather notes, suntan cream, coffee, crumbs and all the other detritus of a productive shelf life - books sold to be collected are immediately fossilised. Once books are sold as first editions, they're dead too. The very act of reading them makes them less valuable.
And, I ask myself, as I look round at my shelves again, if you can't read a book, what makes it any more special than a watch, a stamp or any similar things that I would never consider collecting? I don't really have much of an answer, but I do know that I won't be getting rid of those Hemingways any time soon.
