Nohow

In January, 2023, I bought a Limited Editions Club book called Nohow On by Samuel Beckett. Like all Limited Editions Club publications, Beckett’s work was illustrated. In this case, the illustrations were aquatints by printmaker Robert Ryman and what they illustrated was… nothing. Each print left an impression of the plate on the paper, creating a rectangle of impossibly faint color, just a shade different than the color of the paper on which it was printed. I thought this was just about perfect for Beckett.

This past weekend’s Shadow Show – “The Manhattan Rare Book & Fine Press Fair” brought Beckett’s book to mind, and here’s how:

Anya and I pulled into the City at about 1 pm Friday afternoon. We schlepped our boxes into the venue – with curbside drop off amidst the chaos of mid-day traffic on Lexington Avenue adroitly nanaged by the Rare Books LA crew, authoritatively monitoring traffic, shepherding dealers, and making the jarring transition from highway to mid-town Manhattan surprisingly easy.

Then, of course, we went to lunch at Donohue’s, which brought about the first surprise of the day. Other than the two of us, there wasn’t a single bookseller eating lunch at the bar! It got so bad we were reduced to conversation with a banker (who turned out to be a jolly fellow). Bruno and Jerry, stalwart barmen from days of yore, had been chased out by Covid, but Johnny, the night man, was covering Friday lunch. A couple of beers and corned beef and cabbage with extra mustard – Food of the Gods!

Then to work. While Anya and Tanya set the booth up, I made my rounds.  By 5:30 that afternoon, the three of us were exhausted. Caught a cab back to the Art House – an affordable West Side hotel (scouted up for us by LA Rare Books, aka our promoters, the tireless Johnsons) – with an excellent Chinese restaurant called RedFarm, where we happily ate our fill, and perhaps more than our fill.

I was awakened at 5:30 am Saturday by a jolt of good old fashioned New York Anxiety, which surprised me. I thought I’d left all that sort of misery behind me when I stopped doing the Big Show at the Armory. In fact, that was one of the main reasons why, after 32 years, I stopped doing the Armory shows in 2019. And now here it was again – the cold sweats, the brutal stomach clench…

I realized that I hadn’t sold a single book during setup. While this was an exceedingly uncomfortable sensation, wasn’t particularly unusual. I mean, one of my specialties is not selling books at bookfairs. However, I was bowled over by the simultaneous realization that I hadn’t bought anything, either.

You heard me. I didn’t buy a single thing during setup.

 That had never happened before. Ever. Going all the way back to my first bookfair in 1978.

I realized (5:45 am by now) that my career as a bookseller was finally over. I’d tap out the last of my paltry reserves to pay down as much of my existing debt as I could, after which I’d be forced into bankruptcy. Anya and I would wind up living in our car and dining at the Senior Center. I groaned and writhed. Quietly, though. Then, as I had so many bleak New York Book Fair mornings in the past, I sucked my troubles up and went to work, comforting myself with the mantra that first came to me at some disastrous California fair years before, Today is as good a day as any to die.

 And had a lovely walk through Central Park in early spring, all daffodils and forsythia, those strange, silvery Pencil Towers shining in the early light south of 59th Street.

And spent the day with a comforting array of old friends, dealers, librarians, and collectors, reminding me just how much and exactly why I love this business.

And sold $22,000 worth of books.

And had another splendid lunch at Donohue’s with Rob Rulon-Miller and old friend, mentor, and occasional business partner, Ed Lefkowicz.

And then loaded up without a hitch (Thanks again, Johnsons!) and drove home, still having purchased

Nothing.

I don’t know what it means that I found nothing to buy.  True, the show had shrunk to half its former size – only 32 antiquarian book dealers where before there had been more than 60. (I think many dealers at this Shadow Show level now find Manhattan too expensive, unhealthy, and intimidating. However those timid ones have been replaced by a lively crew of artists producing and selling Fine Press materials). And certainly, after excellent buying in California and at the Ephemera Society show, a flat spot, a diminution of available stock, was understandable. But nothing? What did that even mean?

Nothing?

Beckett, Samuel. (Robert Ryman, illustrator). Nohow On. n.p.: Limited Editions Club, 1989. 27.5 cm., 128, (1 colophon) pp. Aquatint plates. Probably the enigmatic Beckett’s most enigmatic work, first published in French as “Mal vu Mal Dit,” then published in English by Grove press. Perhaps more than any other LEC publication, the illustrations are perfectly in tune with the work. This is #77 in a limited edition of 550 copies, signed by Beckett and Ryman. Bound in publisher’s full Nigerian morocco, with gold cover and spine lettering, in custom clamshell box, as issued. Prospectus laid in. Fine condition in clamshell box. A comparable copy sold at Swann’s in 2021 for $2125. I know it’s not a maritime book, but what the heck. It’s a Beckett! It’ll be fine once the musty odor diminishes. $1250