This great little classic of American letters, published in 1898 and unpublished until now in Spanish, tells the fun adventures and anecdotes, traveling on a journey, a peculiar book collector. A bibliographer buries books; Not literally, but sometimes with the same effect as if I had put them underground. One of them, the most sympathetic who has stepped on the streets for a long time, is the protagonist of this story. He accumulated his books for years in the huge attic of a Westchester County farm. When that library was no longer in the attic, she was transferred to a large warehouse in the village. It was the attraction of the place. The villagers were crushing their noses against the windows and trying to peer into the gloom through the half-lowered shutters ...
But strangely enough, the conversations of this great collector (in an intelligent and acid humor the ones that are narrated here) revolved less around the accumulated books than the men behind them, or those he knew from them . A popular belief about book collectors is that their vices are many, their negative qualities and customs completely impossible to ascertain. However, the most hostile critic is obliged to admit that the confraternity of bibliophiles is eminently picturesque. If their activities are inscrutable, they are also romantic; If their vices are numerous, the perversity of these vices is mitigated by the fact that it is possible to sin with grace. Be that as it may, the sayings and deeds of collectors give life and color to the pages of those good books dealing with other books. Like this.