A Book Worth Its Weight In Gold

What is a book really worth? People often ask me this question and my response is that the

objective value of any book is that you can light a fire with its pages to cook a meal or warm

yourself. The value we attach to books is largely subjective. We call this made-up value of the

book its ‘intrinsic value’. So how does one ascertain the intrinsic value of a book? It all boils

down to market-related supply and demand. If there is a demand for a book and that book is

hard to find, then its value goes up. If nobody wants to buy the book, then its value goes

down.

Customers have argued with me in the past that their ancestor treasured a certain book and

therefore it has to be valuable. Fashions come and go. For instance, my Boer War book

collectors have either passed on or are in their eighties. This means that a lot of Boer War

books are entering the market. This is an example of oversupply. The book’s objective value is

the value of dry paper with which to light a fire, while its intrinsic value is in rapid decline. 

How many Boer War book collectors in their seventies do I have? Some – most of whom are

scaling down and moving into retirement-style accommodation. What about in their sixties?

A few. How many in their fifties? One or two. How many in their forties? None. And so on…

Boer War books reached the apex on the bell curve of their popularity at around the time of

the centenary of the Boer War in 2002 and have been in decline ever since.

Now, this is not a bad thing; merely the natural cycle of the book-collecting ecosystem. One

should not be offended by the book seller, who is the bearer of bad news, nor feel misled by

one’s overzealous relative. One fact is important here. The owner saw value in the book and

they looked after it during their lifetime. If it weren’t for collectors, so many rare books would

be lost to history. Collectors are a vital part of the preservation of books and, in turn, knowledge.

Of course, speculation aside, many books have gained in value – like those on witchcraft or

sorcery that have faced destruction by every generation. Nowadays, there is a lot of demand

for these books, but they are in short supply. Therefore, like a feedback loop, the price they

command is increasing.

There can be a vast discrepancy in the prices of books. Is it the content that is valuable? No.

Truly useful content can be free. For example, Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, a 1953

book, which explains the 24 basic principles of Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) and their

application, has assisted many people in turning their lives around. This, for me, is the perfect

example of a very valuable text that has no intrinsic monetary value. One can download a

PDF of it free of charge from AA’s website.

I have had the honour of being alongside a close friend who has successfully adopted this life

programme. You never stop being an alcoholic, I’m told. You merely stop consuming alcohol.

To remain sober, it becomes critical to stay on the path laid out by that guide and to perform

certain affirmations every day. I hold this text in very high regard, but even a charity shop

might dump a copy of this in the recycling. 

Okay, so what happens when the true value of a rare and deeply coveted book comes,

astonishingly, to light? This has only happened to me once in my 27 years of being a

professional book seller – and this is that story.

* * *

I responded to a WhatsApp message from a deceased-estate manager about a book collection

up for sale in an old-money suburb of Johannesburg. This illustrious tree-lined neighbourhood

hardly ever disappoints. Many generations of Joburg book collectors lived here. The boundary

wall of the property was made of dressed stone with ivy draped over the top. Next to the

hand-beaten iron gates was a terracotta bust of Bacchus, the Roman god of food and wine.

Could gods ever be alcoholics? Well, for a time my friend was a god. He drank to excess and

was bulletproof, as he liked to brag – until he no longer was and the wheels came off.

Bacchus, I mumbled to myself. Well, this is a very encouraging start. The owner of this book

collection will, at the very least, have an interesting library. I rang the intercom at the gate and

two casually dressed people introduced themselves to me as the tenants. The deceased-estate

manager was unable to make the meeting.

I scanned and scanned the rows of unsellable books. You see, my bread and butter comes

from the buying and selling of books to the value of R1 000 each or more. There are simply

too many of the cheaper books on the market and my 200-square-metre shop is at capacity, so

I have to be very discretionary. That doesn’t mean these aren’t good books. No – in fact, half

of my library of reference books might be charity-shop material. These are vital for their

content. The library at Bacchus House was a reading person’s library and not a library of rare

books. Again, there’s no snobbery here. Most of the 10 000 books would be fabulous to read, I

just wouldn’t be able to earn a living by selling them. It may sound disingenuous, but most of

my books in the shop are not for reading but collecting. They are artefacts. 

I pulled a few books out – some James Bonds, some botanical books – to see if they could be

of use to me. Alas, no – no first editions, no deluxe signed editions.

There was one book, however, that announced itself to me. I was in the side room while the

tenants were scrutinising and paging through some of the European coffee table books. I

stepped forward. There, at about chest hight, bound in leather, was a book out of context.

There, in the coin section of the library, was a collected works of Victor Hugo. Firstly, Victor

Hugo’s works could never fit into one volume, and, secondly, there was no number on the

spine to indicate that it was a volume within a set. My brain might have been in neutral up

until that point, but it had just flagged something.

You see, once you’ve been doing something like bookselling for a very long time, you become

good at what neurologists call ‘rapid cognition’. The anomaly of the Victor Hugo book

escalated my neocortex to higher brain function. I carefully extracted the book and

immediately saw that it was a faux book – a book that is hollow, just like a box. I opened it

and there, like treasure, were eight rolled batches of crisp R200 bank notes. They must have

been in rolls of ten each, I speculated. So R40 000 cash in bank notes! I was wearing cargo

pants with large billowing pockets. I turned to face the door. I could hear the tenants’ muffled

voices. They were further down the passage – way down!

They would never know. My hand went from cradling the front end board to touching the

notes. My lizard brain had taken over. A coup of reason was taking place. ‘Don’t be stupid.

This is a deceased estate. Nobody will know,’ my lizard brain commanded. ‘Imagine what

books you can buy with this! That Thomas Bowler oil painting is for sale at this price. It

would look amazing in the shop. It’s a victimless crime!’

‘But you just used the word “crime”,’ Reason told my lizard brain.

‘You will regret this,’ the lizard brain retorted. ‘Regret not stealing money’. My brain was in

overdrive. 

You see, I had just found that book that was truly worth R40 000! It was not someone’s

subjective opinion as to what it was worth. It was not the case that it might be worth R40 000

if we waited for some centenary. No, it was worth R40 000 in liquid cash – on that day! 

This scenario reminds me of game theory. There are many of these strategic interactions

known as games. You could describe this scenario, featuring myself, Victor Hugo, the cash

and the tenants, as a model of an asymmetric information game. Let’s consider a simple

example. It’s called The Silent Heist Game.

There are two players: The Thief, James (J) vs The Victim, the unknown heir to the estate (V)

Actions: J can choose either to steal or not to steal. V is unaware of J’s intentions and can’t

take any actions to prevent the theft.

Payoffs: If J steals and V is unaware, J gains a payoff (stolen cash) without any negative

consequences.

If J doesn’t steal, both J and V have a neutral payoff.

V is unaware of the J’s intentions, so can’t take any preventative actions.

J’s strategy is to maximize their own gain by stealing without being detected.

This scenario highlights the asymmetric information between Thief and Victim, creating a

situation where one party can exploit the lack of knowledge for personal benefit in a game-

theoretical context.

According to this game-theory scenario, I should have stolen the money. It wouldn’t have

made any practical sense to return the book to the shelf nor to disclose its contents. The

erstwhile owner is dead. You can’t steal from the dead. I wouldn’t have been stealing from the

tenants. I did not know who I would be stealing from. Anyway, the heirs would inherit

millions in form of the estate. 

It was then that AA’s Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions began to drown out the noise of my

lizard brain. I closed the Victor Hugo book and turned to walk out of the room. You see,

game theory aside, if I had taken that which was not mine, the crime in question would have

been committed primarily against myself. This is where AA’s profound teachings kick in – the

wealth gained from living a life of principle is that it is rendered a valuable life – a moral life. 

Like becoming dependent on alcohol, one can become dependent on commercial gain – even

if that is achieved by the buying and selling of books. But there’s so more to it than that for

me. This is my vocation, my way of life. Yes, there is profit involved, but the primary objective

is to live a life of books – to be a bibliophile – and ‘to live a life of honesty, tolerance,

unselfishness… to avoid moral bankruptcy,’ as stated in the AA manual.

I strode down the long, dimly-lit passage of the moral high ground. 

‘Why would this book be worth a lot of money?’ I asked the tenants.

‘No idea,’ came the consensus.

‘Open it,’ I said, beaming, and gestured toward the book.

It was as if their faces had been lit up by the reflection of gold bullion. Apart from a subdued

‘wow’, they were speechless.

We continued through the rest of the house, but there wasn’t anything for me, so I ordered

myself an Uber and departed.

Not all book outings result in me making a purchase. It’s the way it is.

Three months later, the deceased-estate manager called me to view books. I told him that I’d

already been and that there wasn’t anything for me. I presumed that he had phoned several

book dealers and had just forgotten. He apologised and said his goodbyes.

‘You must be thrilled with the Victor Hugo,’ I quipped, fishing for a compliment.

‘What Victor Hugo?’ he quizzed.

‘The one with all the cash in it.’

‘What cash?’

* James you dodgy f%^&@! Did you just write a story about wanting to rip off a little old

lady? Let me answer in this way: my mom thinks I am perfect, and I tend to agree. This said,

this story is far more readable with me – as opposed to some anonymous character – as the

flawed protagonist.