It has become commonplace for pessimistic bibliophiles like me to say that second-hand bookshops are an endangered species. You can pick your reason why – ever-increasing rents; competition from charity bookshops; the near-hilarious misanthropy that some old-school owners demonstrate, which will put all but the most committed punter off their establishment for life – but the reality might be that ever-declining sales of new books are mirrored by their antiquarian and used equivalents. We are constantly told that nobody is reading any more, because of reduced attention spans and the ubiquity of easy-to-digest podcasts. Surely this applies doubly, if not trebly, to mouldy old books, which – horror of horrors – come used, rather than in pristine condition?
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Sam Leith
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Well not everyone sees the world like that, and two things happened recently that restored my faith in the trade. The first was the industry’s big set-piece event, Firsts, which takes place annually at the Saatchi Gallery in Chelsea. The preview night is full of noted book collectors (Jacob Rees-Mogg was in evidence, as he usually is) and wall to wall sparkling English wine; the idea being, presumably, that bibliophiles get tipsy on fizz and then decide to splurge tens of thousands – or more – on rare and valuable artefacts. I gazed longingly at signed T.S. Eliots and impossibly expensive children’s books, but even as I was window shopping, I was struck by the fact that people – including people in their twenties and thirties, who made up a very decent number of the attendees – weren’t just gawping but actually buying, indicating that the future of the high-end market, at least, is looking healthier than it has done for years.
