The Last Book Sale: An Era Ends for an Author, a Town, and a Culture

Larry McMurtry's used book store sold off three quarters of its stock at an auction earlier this month: Further proof that print is dying? Or a hopeful passing of the torch?

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Larry McMurtry's hometown of Archer City, Texas (pop. 1834), the basis of his 1966 novel The Last Picture Show and setting of the book's film adaptation, has become a pilgrimage site of sorts in recent years, and not just for McMurtry devotees. Going back at least to 1970, McMurtry has carried on a second career as a used and rare bookseller, lately one of the biggest in the country. After three decades operating primarily out of Washington, D.C., McMurtry came home to Archer in the early 2000s, bringing with him an inventory that has topped 400,000 books, including rare gems like a unique, made-to-order erotica collection commissioned by an Oklahoma oilman, featuring contributions from Henry Miller and Anaïs Nin. Two and a half hours from the nearest large city, Fort Worth, McMurtry opened Booked Up, filling five empty storefronts in a town that had been in slow decline at least since the era of Spencer Tracy and Jimmy Stewart, when the little movie theatre on the courthouse square last showed first-run films.

In his second memoir, Books, McMurtry—whose body of work also includes Lonesome Dove and the adapted screenplay for Brokeback Mountain—wrote of fulfilling his "childhood dream of bringing books to Archer City" by creating a book town in Archer. For a precedent, he pointed to the ancient Welsh village Hay-on-Wye, which has redeveloped itself since 1960 into a town of more than thirty bookstores. Archer City was to follow suit, a sort of book-lover's Jerusalem on Texas's dry and dusty plains. This August marked the end of that brief era for Archer, and for McMurtry, who is 76 and has had health problems. In a massive, weekend-long auction dubbed The Last Book Sale, he sold off over 300,000 books, or three-quarters of his stock, closing all but one of his storefronts in the process. It was a notable moment of transition, not just for the town of Archer City, but also for the likewise increasingly peripheral and depleted communities of book-sellers and lovers of the printed word.

In typical McMurtry style, he refused to list the auction books online in advance—scouts and buyers had to come to Archer to pick through the lots and prepare their bids. McMurtry has refused to adjust his habits or his business to the vast changes taking place in book technology and commerce over the past two decades. "Maybe Amazon is just a bubble," he told me a week before the auction. "I wouldn't say it's settled forever. E-books could be just a bubble."

Others, like John Guetschow of used-book behemoth Powell's in Portland, Oregon, would have done things differently. "He could have made a lot more money, and I'm surprised there's nobody in his circle who stopped and did that for him," Guetschow said. "I don't want to criticize the host either—this was a really cool occasion. It just doesn't seem like a way to sell books anymore, or buy them." Guetschow's staff at Powell's purchases 170,000 books per month.

But the Last Book Sale sometimes seemed to take profit as an afterthought. McMurtry emphasized in interviews with me and others that his primary motive was to remove what might become a liability to his heirs, who are unfamiliar with the book trade. "I also kind of like the notion of feeding the cause every once in a while, moving books on," he told me before the sale. "I think that'll be good, to pour some really good stock into the younger generation of dealers. It'll be interesting to see who comes, who's still in the business."

The auction drew out an eccentric collection of perhaps 100 Ludd-curious bookmen and bookwomen from around the country, and many seemed to relish the simplicity of the technology involved: pencil-and-paper auction cards, no wifi, and, of course, the once-mighty codex, stacked, shelved, and boxed all around us like a slumbering army. A typical cross-section of buyers included John Gabriel and Elizabeth Hin of Dallas, private collectors who purchased an edition of A Child's Garden of Verses that Hin recognized from her childhood; Louis Clement, who sells a few shelves of used books out of his pet supply store in Hot Springs, Arkansas ("I have tons of books of Larry's. I don't sell 'em."); Tom Congalton of Between the Covers in Gloucester City, NJ, who lamented that he was the only bona fide rare-book dealer on hand for the auction; and Erin Hahn, 22, and Zachary Stacey, 24, of Austin, who bought a few thousand books with dreams of opening a store featuring "free same-day bike delivery of used books."

Two younger couples aside, however, the buyers did have clear demographic tendencies towards oldness and whiteness. "There isn't the next generation. I hoped there'd be more people my age," said Eddy Nix, 42, of Driftless Books in Viroqua, Wisconsin. "I'm really kind of disappointed, but I know how hard it is to get started. It's for the brave to come down here. Everybody's getting steals, that's for sure." Most buyers expressed satisfaction with the prices they paid. McMurtry, to his credit, pointed out that he had sold nearly everything he'd put up for auction.

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Michael Agresta is a writer living in Los Angeles.

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