The Man Who Loved Books Too Much: The True Story of a Thief, a Detective, and a World of Literary Ob

discovery and theft, but what I didn’t realize was that the most important stories they had to tell were those formed through their collections. They were not only “salvaging civilization,” but also, by linking books, engaging in acts of interpretation.

Although I haven’t become a bibliomaniac, I now see myself as an ardent collector, no longer of carnelians and Pixy Stix straws, but of stories. Searching for them, researching them, and writing them gives my life shape and purpose the way that hunting, gathering, and cataloging books does for the collector. We’re all building narratives. As I thought about Gilkey’s and Sanders’s stories, and those of the other collectors and thieves I encountered, they merged in my mind into a collection of their own, the larger story of which is a testament to the passion for books —their content and histories, their leathery, papery, smooth, musty, warped, foxed, torn, engraved, and inscribed bodies. This passion I share with them all.

THE LAST TIME I met with Gilkey, I wondered aloud whether he had considered the possible consequences of his life, his story, being made public. He muttered something about a statute of limitations and stared at my notebook as if it held his future. For a moment, he looked frozen. Then he tossed out something about how the book might possibly hurt his future employment opportunities.

“But no, I’m not worried about it,” he said, regaining his composure. “I mean, I gotta check certain legalities. Make sure I don’t get charged for things.”

Then, as quickly as you can slam a book shut, Gilkey, in characteristic fashion, turned his attention from dangerous risk to glorious possibility.

“I was thinking of the ending of your book,” he told me. “I could write a series of detective novels. The first one would be about a serial killer who’s fascinated by the poem ‘The Devil’s Walk,’ written in 1820 by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. It is a very striking poem. It mentions bookstores and sort of an obsession. . . . Anyway, in my novel the FBI has to call in the foremost expert in the world of books and poems and classical literature, because there are no book dealers that can solve the murderer’s crimes. This expert is someone who, as Ken Sanders says, went over to the dark side and found all these ways to steal, to accumulate the greatest collection of rare books in the world. And then he had to go to prison, but now he’s out, so they called him in as a consultant. Unfortunately, he’s a former convict. You know, slightly crazy, but he stole rare books. I would base it a little on me. . . . I’d be set up like this dark figure. And maybe I’d try to have more access to certain books that the government keeps hidden. You know, the book. You know what I mean. . . . There’s always that one book you can never get your hands on. Maybe he’s working with the FBI just to have access to that one book. . . . Maybe it’s at the Library of Congress, maybe a special hidden book, the Dead Sea Scrolls, the diary of JFK’s killing. Something like that. And maybe there’s a surprise ending. Now he has access to the book, so maybe . . .” Gilkey paused a moment before delivering his ending. “Maybe still, I’m a thief.

“What do you think about that idea? Your honest opinion.”

Afterword

I wrote most of this book from my home office, which overlooks a small garden of herbs my son planted several years ago, when he was nine. The only plants of his still growing are rue, a bitter herb that brings to mind the phrase “rue the day,” and purple sage, which he once dried, then gathered into pagan bundles, and with a friend burned one night to clear the air of bad spirits. Both herbs occupy pages in the Krautterbuch, the centuries-old German botanical text that led me to this story. My son got the idea to plant medicinal herbs from a book on herbology he requested one Christmas because it was one of the subjects on Harry Potter’s reading list at Hogwarts. Like my son, almost everyone I met in the course of writing this book had been deeply inspired by stories, by books.

For three years, the Krautterbuch, an inspiring book to be sure—but not mine to keep—sat on my desk. I often wondered, did not returning it make me a thief? Or was I a thief only as long as I kept it? Where is the line drawn? And having taken down Gilkey’s story, had I become a thief of another sort? I have come to the conclusion that I was a thief of neither the book nor Gilkey’s story: I was a borrower of a book with an indeterminate provenance, and Gilkey gave his story to me willingly. Many times did I “rue the day” I happened upon this story, and maybe I should have waved sage smoke around my office to clear the air of the bad mojo that comes with writing about crime. Yet I was always grateful that I had had the good fortune to come across such an enthralling story, one that raised questions about obsession and deception, how passions provoke us, and the ways we justify our pursuit of them. Like the rare first edition, a collector’s longtime desire, this story had me under its spell from beginning to end.

NOT LONG BEFORE this book went to press, Sanders, nominally retired “bibliodick,” had nevertheless alerted colleagues of Gilkey’s most recent theft: stealing a book from a Canadian dealer. Gilkey was not arrested. The story never ends.This book belongs to none but meFor there’s my name inside to see.To steal this book, if you should try,It’s by the throat that you’ll hang high.And ravens then will gather ’boutTo find your eyes and pull them out.And when you’re screaming“Oh, Oh, Oh!”Remember, you deserved this woe.—Warning written by medieval German scribe

Acknowledgments

Without the support of Ken Sanders and John Gilkey, this book would not have been possible. Both these men answered my endless questions, a feat of exceptional patience and generosity, for which I owe them profound thanks.

Among the many others quoted in these pages, I particularly appreciate the help and expertise of rare book dealer John Crichton and Detective Kenneth Munson. My thanks go as well to all the collectors I interviewed, especially Celia Sack, Joseph Serrano, and David Hosein. And to Malcolm Davis, who shared with me the ancient tome that drew me into the world of rare books and then to this story.

Having the opportunity to work with Sarah McGrath was a stroke of luck. For the intelligence and insight she brought to the editing of this book, I am deeply grateful. My appreciation extends as well to Marilyn Ducksworth, Michael Bar-son, Sarah Stein, and the rest of the people at Riverhead. I would also like to acknowledge Nan Weiner, outstanding editor of San Francisco Magazine, who published my original article about John Gilkey and Ken Sanders.

My sincere appreciation goes to literary agent Jim Levine. For his vision, savvy, and faith in this book, I owe him a huge debt of gratitude. I also appreciate the hard work and dedication of Danielle Svetcov and Lindsay Edgecormbe, both also of Levine Greenberg.

Writing is usually a lonely endeavor, but for almost a decade I have enjoyed the tremendous good fortune of being part of the writing group North 24th. Heartfelt thanks to fellow members: Leslie Crawford, Frances Dinkelspiel, Katherine Ellison, Sharon Epel, Susan Freinkel, Katherine Neilan, Lisa Wallgren Okuhn, and Jill Storey.

I thank everyone at the San Francisco Writers’ Grotto, particularly Natalie Baszile and Melanie Gideon. I am indebted as well to Andy Keiffer, Ursula Bendixon, and Waltraud Bendixon, and to my parents, Lyle and Sidney Hoover, for their help and encouragement.

While writing this book, I have been grateful for my children, Sonja and Julian, whose incessant hunger for stories of book theft often kept me going. And to John, for his support and unflagging belief, I owe special thanks and love.

Notes