As much as I love organisation and detest clutter, there is an undeniable charm about the charity bookshop. Rarely do they sell only books; invariably a selection of inane gift cards and soaps made of elephant dung are sold alongside the musty, cheap, faded Penguin paperbacks. But it’s the book section which is my favourite. There is nothing at all that beats a good rummage, ten minutes spent with your head at a funny angle, sizing up books, and deciding how they’d look in your bedroom (in this sense, charity book shopping is much like sex – something the major booksellers have cottoned onto as well, with ‘feel every word’ slogans and the whoring of books on ‘3 for 2’ offers).
Just like sex too, the results can be disappointing. Most of the stuff in them is, admittedly, a bit naff – Helen Fielding’s heart must sink every time she walks into Oxfam, only to see at least three copies of each of the BJ titles on the shelves (on that note, James Herriot, Dan Brown, and David Blaine must all feel similar. ‘Unfashionable authors’ support group, anyone?). But when you do find a second-hand gem, and it does, occasionally happen, my heart is warmed and I want to show my new book to everyone. The other day I happened upon a short story collection about Edinburgh called ‘One City’. I only went for it because of the contributions from two widely different yet equally wonderful writers – Irvine Welsh and Alexander McCall Smith. Imagine my joy when, 50p later, I open the book only to find their respective signatures gracing the opening page! (There was also a submission from Ian Rankin, so his biro stain was in there too, but I’m not such a fan of crime, so it has a little less resonance than perhaps otherwise.)
Another thing that I love about second hand bookshop is the kind of person who donates. Most people use them as a dumping ground for rubbish found in a dead grandmother’s loft, but the angels of books are those who read the latest literary fiction titles, and feel an altruistic need to dash off to the second hand place. In the same trip as mentioned above, I found a copy of A S Byatt’s The Children’s Book – again, for only 50p (thank you, Salvation Army, for being considerably cheaper than Oxfam). Though not in quite the same vein, I recently saw a copy of Dawn French’s A Tiny Bit Marvellous in a charity shop in Camden, when it was only released in November! So thank you, you lovely people who combine intellectualism with cleanliness, because it is *you* who enable most of my bookcase.
I just wish that more people shared my love of a good find. I just don’t understand the obsession with new books. Surely the history of the book-as-object is fascinating too? My friends and I once held a book swap and all wrote our names in the books - by the time we get round to organising some more, some of those titles will have four or five names in, illustrating the history of the books on their travels from different homes. And who doesn’t love a ‘With all my heart, today and always, Dec 1987’ etching in a book, clearly the scribble of a long-departed, little-appreciated lover?
It is thanks to the charity hand bookshop that I am able to expand my collection (for a later instalment: a little something about Walter Benjamin) at affordable prices (ahem, Waterstone’s!) and for good cause. I just wish there were more of them, and that more people donated better quality titles. The charity book shop is of increasing importance, given recent cuts to library funding, and I hope that in the future, more and more people will be turned onto the charm of a great find.
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