Too many books

I once had an older male friend, a bachelor, called David. His hobbies included collecting antiques (especially commemorative china) and books. I knew him from mid-1985 to early 2009: twenty-four years. He was a very nice man, and I considered him as one of my best friends. 

He lived at the far end of Sussex, and from 1991, after my marriage collapsed and I was on my own, we started visiting each other once a month, making a congenial day of it. My confidence and self-esteem had taken a hit, and I was grateful to have safe, civilised and gentlemanly company to go around with. We didn't necessarily agree on everything: but we were like-minded enough to get along very harmoniously. We were both traditional grammar school products - although David's school had been Dulwich no less, which trumped my own less distinguished school in Southampton. Both of us had served in the Revenue, with old-school training, which was another background thing we shared. 

The routine was always the same. I'd drive over to him - or him to me - and after a tea or coffee we'd go out with a good lunch in mind, followed by a pleasant afternoon spent visiting somewhere interesting - a National Trust property perhaps - or browsing in antique shops and second-hand bookshops. The afternoon would include tea and cake somewhere. Then we'd go home and have further refreshment before one of us, the one making the visit, drove back. 

From the mid-1990s, another friend (M---) would usually join us. And occasionally I'd meet one or other of David's local friends. He had many interests, mostly to do with history - which chimed with me - and was treasurer of the local historical society. He was however no photographer, and was always puzzled why I took so many pictures of anything that caught my attention.

Our monthly meetups might have gone on forever. I was very sad when they came to an end. In theory we are still in touch, but he has never been able to resume the old routine. That's a pity. And more so because I have continued to visit National Trust properties, enjoy good lunches, browse in antique shops and second-hand bookshops, and refresh myself with tea and cake in the afternoons. But there it is. David must be in his eighties now, although surely still much as I remember him. 

We had a string of bookshops we might visit, mostly in East Sussex. The second-hand book trade has taken a hammering in recent years, and anyone with rent to pay must have gone under during the Covid lockdowns, unless they had established a lively online business. I suspect that some of our old browsing haunts have gone. But there are still some survivors, although it's hard to see how they manage to keep going. 

I looked in at one of these old-style second-hand bookshops recently: Camilla's Bookshop in Eastbourne. It has always claimed to house a lot of books - as many as a million - implying the best selection of old books around. That claim may well be substantially true. Certainly, it's easy to believe. 

The place has always been absolutely packed with books from floor to ceiling, at least on its ground floor. Fresh stock was clearly always arriving, left in piles with minimal sorting. Eastbourne, aka Geriatric City, remains a popular place to retire to, and when old people with hobbies die - particularly old men - their books tend to end up at a shop like this. If there was ever a rigorous system for dealing with fresh stock, and fitting it into what was already there, it had buckled twenty or more years ago, at least on the ground floor. So it was when David and I went there in the early 2000s. I don't think we ever bought anything, because the choice was overwhelming, and it was just too hard to find anything in particular. Only the upper floor was in any way easy to negotiate. Here it is in August 2005:

It wasn't a good idea to put books in piles. It made browsing hard, as only the topmost books in a pile were easy to get at. More shelves would have been a far better solution, but with fresh stock coming in all the time, managing acres of shelf space would become a huge job, requiring paid helpers with a good knowledge of the shop's subject geography, and a shop like this can't afford to employ them. 

Fast-forward fourteen years to August 2019, when I was in Eastbourne on my own.

Camilla's wasn't open at the time, but I could look in through a window. The ground floor looked stacked with books everywhere.

No doubt, somewhere among all that, were books one might yearn to possess. Perhaps the owners still catalogued every new arrival, and could say where it might be, in which pile. But the casual browser would be bewildered.

On now to 9th March this year. The ground floor was even more crowded with books. I said hello to the man behind the desk, who was completely hemmed in by stock, and carefully climbed the steps to the upper floor. That had been a place to walk around in back in 2005. But no longer. There was barely enough floor space left. 

I like second-hand bookshops, and bear no grudge whatever against this one. It's clearly an Eastbourne institution. But if I were seriously looking for a book or two on a particular topic, where would I begin? There were simply too many books there. Only the topmost or outermost volumes were at all accessible. The vast majority were not. And assuming a book I might want were visible, what would be the consequence of trying to extract it, if it were deep down in a tottering pile? Would that start an avalanche of books? Supposing I were pinned down or buried under half a ton of hardbacks? What if the shift in weight were the last straw for this old building, and the entire floor collapsed? I left well alone. 

It also occurred to me that, being elderly, or at least inclined to be clumsy, I might brush or stagger against these books and start them slithering around. That might well be the end of the place as a shop, if the upper floor became just a knee-deep sea of books, no longer in piles but strewn everywhere, and beyond the energy of the owners to tidy them up, and organise them again. Would they sue me? The thought made me nervous. I backed away and went downstairs. The chap at the half-hidden desk was in conversation with a very old man who had called by, clearly for a chat rather than to buy a book. I snuck past behind him and out into the street. 

I don't think I'll be back.