The value of a book
Yesterday the BBC published an article concerning one of America’s great literary treasures: a Bay Psalm Book. Originally printed in 1640, it is one of only 11 to survive. When the auction comes, it is expected to fetch at least £18 million. The price tag, of course, arises from its scarcity and its place in literary history.
Sometimes, though, the value of a book cannot be measured by any of those things. I love to collect old books, and it is maybe not surprising that a number of mine are religious texts. One of them is a tiny (and rather twee) little volume entitled ‘Daisies from the Psalms’. Look at the entry for the evening of the 23rd day of the month below. I wonder why somebody felt they had to underline that particular verse on May 23rd 1904? It is like hearing a barely audible echo down the years with just enough tone to capture the sadness of the moment:
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I also have an Eighteenth Century family Bible – bought for a tiny amount in a secondhand bookshop. The book itself is falling apart – its leather cover stitched and restitched many times. At the end of the Old Testament and before the beginning of the New are two pages which tell a story all of their own. On it the births of all the children in the family are recorded in beautiful copper-plate handwriting. In pencil and ink, beside a long-since pressed fern leaf are the words ‘Pegie, my dear died on 12 February 1787′.
Who could ever put a price tag on such a precious artifact? Books are rendered precious by the place they play in our lives, as well as their contents.
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