Bubble Burst

Last week, having finally made the gut-wrenching decision to finally sell the first edition For Whom the Bell Tolls I wrote about in a previous post (bought for two dollars, worth 5200, etc., etc...), I journeyed downtown, stopping at Ken Sanders Rare Books on the chance that they might quote me a higher price than Sam Weller's. I waited in the entrance for the proprietor, but when Mr. Sanders made his appearance he immediately dashed my hopes, shaking his head and telling me that this was a Book of the Month Club edition, rather than the actual first printing from Scribner's. He told me that if it retained its dust jacket it might fetch 50-80 dollars but without is not worth more than ten. Slightly panicking but still calm, I left the shop figuring that, as Weller's had quoted me the original estimate, I still might be able to pick up a few grand there. I hurried the two blocks west and headed straight for the used-book buyer. The man I'd spoken with previously, to my chagrin, wasn't in and a rather stodgy woman walked up to the desk. A few head-shakes and broken dreams later I was back on the street, book in hand.

The funny thing is I'm still debating whether to sell the book or not. Part of me wants to simply be rid of it and its depressing daily reminder of my credulity, but the rest of me argues that it was still a great find, and two dollar Hemingways don't fall out of the sky. As I wrote weeks ago, for good or ill it will probably remain on my shelf. But, with my five-thousand dollar insurance option and great thrift-store find story nullified, the only consolation I take from this episode is that no stray deviant blog reader (or former cellmate) will break into my house to steal the book. Small potatoes indeed.