At the library table

In Short

This book is a series of informal, reflective essays centered on the life of a dedicated collector. The author examines the habits of bibliophiles, the pleasure of arranging a library, and the reputations of nineteenth-century novelists who have since drifted into obscurity. It is a work of personal history and literary criticism that has lasted because of its warm, unpretentious tone and its authentic capture of a vanishing era of gentlemanly scholarship. It captures the spirit of a reader who finds more companionship in shelves of books than in the frantic pace of modern society.

The Story

The narrative begins with a candid admission: the author doubts that many people truly care for "books about books." He establishes his perspective at the "Library Table," where he distinguishes the genuine book lover from the casual owner who views volumes merely as decorative furniture. He argues that while society values the appearance of refinement, few possess the patience to look within the tomes that line their walls.

From this starting point, the author expands into the philosophy of the "Dofob"—a member of a club for those who find comfort in the association of books. He describes the "insane joy" of organizing shelves, the struggle of finding space for new acquisitions, and the eventual, melancholic realization that these cherished items will one day pass to others. He reflects on his own aging process, noting the bittersweet nature of looking back at a simpler, more dignified New York, and he shares personal memories of mourning Abraham Lincoln in a city draped in black.

The middle section shifts to a critical appraisal of two once-celebrated authors, William Harrison Ainsworth and G. P. R. James. The author laments their current neglect, noting how encyclopedias and critics have either ignored them or dismissed them with harsh, often inaccurate summaries. He attempts to reclaim their legacy, acknowledging their limitations—such as Ainsworth’s lack of psychological depth or James’s tendency toward formulaic plots—while defending their ability to hold a reader’s attention through sheer narrative energy. He explores the professional controversies of their lives, including the bitter fallout between Ainsworth and his illustrator, George Cruikshank, and the bureaucratic confusion surrounding James’s diplomatic career.

The arc concludes with a series of personal letters and anecdotes that humanize these historical figures. Through private correspondence, the reader sees James not as a forgotten relic, but as a witty, hardworking man who navigated the professional frustrations of the literary market. The final passages return to the author’s own study. He finds peace in the connection between his own life and the lives of those he has studied, concluding that even if the world eventually forgets an author, the personal act of reading preserves a spark of humanity. The book ends not with a grand thesis, but with a quiet acceptance of the inevitable passage of time, reaffirming that for the true lover of literature, a home without books is not a home at all.

How It Unfolds

The philosophy of ownership The author challenges the reader to consider whether they truly love the contents of their books or merely the status of the library itself. He draws a sharp line between the "merry idlers" of society and the quiet, solitary reader who finds meaning in the printed page.

The spirit of the Dofob He introduces the concept of "Dofobery," a lighthearted term for the deep, comfortable relationship between a collector and his collection. This section focuses on the daily rituals of the bibliophile, including the endless, soothing task of rearranging shelves.

Reflections on a lost New York The author steps away from the shelves to recall the sights and sounds of his youth. He paints a portrait of a city defined by dignified residences and the collective grief of a nation mourning its president.

The defense of Ainsworth The narrative turns to literary history, confronting the harsh modern verdict on William Harrison Ainsworth. The author argues that despite his flaws, Ainsworth possessed a rare, ancient power to enthrall a reader.

The career of G. P. R. James The author provides a detailed, often humorous look at the life and work of the prolific novelist George Payne Rainsford James. He untangles the conflicting accounts of James’s life, noting how easily history misremembers even the most public figures.

Personal correspondence as truth The book closes by presenting intimate letters from James to his friends. These documents offer a final, humanizing perspective, stripping away the critical distance and showing the author as a man of humor, resilience, and genuine literary ambition.

The People

The book is populated by figures who serve as foils to the author’s own quiet existence. Central to the narrative is the author himself, a man who identifies as a "Dofob" and finds his identity in the steady, quiet preservation of literature. He is a man of strong opinions, often weary of the "modern" world’s lack of depth.

The novelists William Harrison Ainsworth and G. P. R. James appear as tragic, yet resilient figures. Ainsworth is depicted as a man of immense popular success who was eventually discarded by the literary establishment, a fate the author finds unjust and absurd. G. P. R. James is portrayed as the quintessential "gentleman writer," struggling against the demands of publishers and the vagaries of professional reputation.

Also present are the "omnivorous" readers and the "kindly dealers" who populate the fringes of the author’s life. Through their letters and journals, we see the likes of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Nathaniel Hawthorne, whose interactions with James reveal the camaraderie of nineteenth-century men of letters. These individuals are not characters in a plot, but benchmarks of character; they represent the dignity of a life lived in service to one’s craft, standing in stark contrast to the dismissive, hurried critics who seek to reduce a life’s work to a few lines of encyclopedia filler.

In Its Own Voice

The author reflects on the persistent, if sometimes irrational, desire to own the first editions of a text:

The first thought and image, coming fresh from the brain, are usually more vigorous and poetic than the sober second-thoughts, and alterations appear to enfeeble the expression.

In a moment of vulnerability, the author admits to the deep, almost existential connection he feels toward his own collection:

They are interwoven with his existence and it is pitiful to think that he must be parted from them.

The author recounts the genuine, if sometimes naive, excitement of a writer who believes his work has captured the imagination of his contemporaries:

I do believe that he is a good fellow, at all events he is very successful in society and though there are not as you well know twenty people in London who know who Attila was, he is as well received, I understand, as if he had the entrée.

What It's Really About

At its core, this book is an argument for the intrinsic value of "bookishness." It explores the tension between the transient nature of fame and the permanence of the printed word. The author questions why we value certain authors over others, suggesting that literary reputation is often a matter of fashion rather than merit. Beneath the anecdotes about first editions and forgotten novelists lies a deeper inquiry into the function of a library: is it a sanctuary for the mind or a vanity for the ego? Ultimately, the book posits that the act of reading is a moral and emotional anchor, providing a way for the reader to maintain a sense of continuity in a world where both people and their works are far too easily forgotten.

Why Read It Today

Readers who find comfort in the company of books will feel an immediate kinship with this author. It is a slow, meditative read, perfect for a rainy afternoon when you wish to be reminded that the anxieties of the "modern" age are not entirely new. The book feels like a conversation with a well-read, slightly opinionated friend who prefers the quiet of a library to the noise of the street.

However, prospective readers should be aware that the author is a product of his time. He displays a certain class-consciousness—referring to the "lower orders"—that reflects the social attitudes of the early twentieth century. Furthermore, his focus on obscure nineteenth-century novelists requires a certain degree of patience; he assumes his reader is already familiar with the broad strokes of literary history. If you are looking for a fast-paced narrative, you will not find it here. But if you value the feeling of being in a room surrounded by thousands of books, hearing a voice that treats the preservation of thought as a sacred duty, this book will leave you with a profound sense of peace. It reminds us that while all things fade, there is a distinct, quiet joy in holding onto the stories that shaped us.