I actually read this book to the end and found the scattered information and insights in it worth reading. I even was curious as to how this couple's foray into the world of used and rare book collecting turned out. But in the course of it I got so fed up with these two particular people that I have to give this book only 2 stars. For one thing, it is written in the cloying first-person plural, like The Virgin Suicides or Double Down, but they are no Barthelmes and no Eugenides. Then there was way too much detail about finding babysitters for their jaunts, way too many undercurrents of yuppie condescension to their Berkshire Hills neighbors, way too much bragging about their disposable income disguised as being self-effacing about their not being superwealthy (a $10,000 book was out of our range naturally, but we happily dropped $600 on an impulse purchase!), and on the whole they seem to not, in the end, have been able to "get" what it is that attracts people to buying or selling used and rare books. They rightfully disdain the fellow at the auction buying up tons of outdated unwanted leatherbound law books which no one wants at 99¢ each so that he can put fake "Complete Works of Shakespeare" labels on the spines and sell them by the yard to interior decorators in Florida. On the other hand, they seem superciliously amused by the eccentricities of rural book dealers—they can't get over the beards!—and they seem unable to comprehend that some collectors specialize in nonfiction, or even in buying books they haven't read yet. The idea of a scholar-collector or even avocational-autodidact-collector never occurs to them. Through what they confess is sheer inanition they drift into being specialists in "modern firsts"—i.e. first editions. Steinbeck, Capote, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Faulkner--they seem absolutely committed to not owning any rare books that are not common on high-school English syllabi. Dashiell Hammett is slumming. When they ask a dealer why it is that a book on whaling once owned by Melville, full of marginal notations, is worth less than a pristine first edition of Tarzan of the Apes with a dust-jacket, he patiently explains to them that there are a finite number of books out there and a finite number of collectors and that collectors are interested in what they're interested in and that people like Tarzan and that it's a market. But they went away still confused, and they go off to ogle a near-mint copy of Steinbeck's The Moon Is Down. The scene in The Great Gatsby where it turns out none of the pages are cut in the books in Gatsby's library would have been a great example for them to bring up in the part of the book with the guy buying up law books by the yard at the auction (see above), but I suspect that they haven't read The Great Gatsby. Sometimes they refer to buying a book because they loved it long ago, and they frequently describe shelving them at eye level after purchasing them so they can walk past and admire them, but they never mention *reading* the books they buy. They're more like Gatsby than they think. Other than Used and Rare, I've never read a book with so many prices listed in it that wasn't *itself* an auction catalogue, even though they scold those who are in it for the money. But they really really lost me when they write about finding a rare Henry James edition and THEN spend a paragraph telling the reader who Henry James is (!) (did they think I thought he was a big-band trumpeter?) and then they compare him to Edith Wharton and then of course they have to explain to me who Edith Wharton was and then they laugh about how popular Wharton was in her day, a superstar like Madonna really to hear them tell it, and how poor and struggling James was and then they find it a further irony that now, again to hear them tell it, nobody reads Wharton except for silly little people with beards in the Berkshires who just like her because she was local, and that in their opinion Henry James is superior to Wharton. It's at that point that I finally said, "Who the fuck ARE these people?" On their jacket photo they are posing together in a professional photographic portrait in three-quarter profile and they look like a suburban husband-and-wife real-estate team posing for the picture that goes on the lawn signs, and the blurb clarifies why it is that they always present themselves to book dealers as "we're writers." Well, they've done some magazine journalism as well as tossed out about a novel each which sank without a trace or a bubble; they're journalists is what they are. And that is the kind of book they've produced. AND they think James is better than Wharton. But wait, you might be saying, don't be so harsh; don't they have a right to that opinion? And I flip back to their jacket photo and I say, "No, actually. Those stupid fucking yuppies do not in fact have a right to that particular opinion."