A Careless Collection
When asked to write about my experience as a collector, I was immediately taken aback as I quite honestly had never considered myself to be a ‘collector’.
My sweaters are not argyle nor are my jackets tweedy and neither are adorned with leather patches at the elbow. I do not immerse myself in volumes of catalogues and on- line auctions. I cannot be a collector as you won’t find me hanging about fellow vendors’ booths as they unpack in an attempt to get the jump on the next guy for that illusive little goody for which negotiations for price ensue followed by the quiet and sneaky exchange, reminiscent of a back alley illicit ‘buy’ No, I am not a collector.
“So, asks the real collector in the family, what is that assemblage of literary works by one specific author on the shelf in the library?”
Oh good grief! I am a collector. Who knew?
My humble little collection of Daphne DuMaurier came about inadvertently as I would suspect as do a lot of collections. I love the Cornish Coast. If I could I would spend the rest of my life there and die quite happily amongst the old fishing villages, the exquisite rock formations and pounding surf of this spectacular region in England. Contine reading