Antonio Auriemma, the hunter of first editions

Antonio Auriemma, the hunter of first editions

Interview with the dean of Neapolitan booksellers. Among his "clients", Adolfo Omodeo ("He introduced me to Gadamer") and then Giorgio Napolitano, Eduardo De Filippo and Elena Croce. Memories from the shelf

On certain evenings, periodically, two distinguished gentlemen of a certain age walked arm in arm slowly through the Galleria Umberto I in Naples; the one on the left, wiry, hat and scarf for all seasons and an open catalog in his hands, stopped every so often to spell out a number (“38! 120! 198!”); the other, with a jovial complexion and lively gaze, nodded and jotted down the figure on a sheet of paper. Protagonists of the peripatetic ritual, which was repeated for years, the lawyer Gerardo Marotta, founder of the Italian Institute for Philosophical Studies, and Antonio Auriemma, dean of Neapolitan booksellers. Having crossed the threshold of eighty, Don Antonio has no desire to stop although, after Marotta's departure, no one has shared with him an equally "long and sweet" reading of a catalogue, as Giuseppe Pontiggia wished to bibliophiles and to himself: "Nothing it equals the joy of searching – the concentrated and mobile eye of vice – for the coveted titles, often deferring the fatal moment, to increase the intoxication or mitigate the disappointment”.

Nostalgic for those evenings in the Gallery?

A lot. As soon as a new catalog came out, I went to the lawyer Marotta at Palazzo Serra di Cassano. Hurry up with his commitments, he would take me to dinner in a restaurant giving a general first glance at the pages. Then the walk in the Gallery with the ritual of choosing, which sometimes made him enthusiastic, for example when he found a volume by Adolfo Omodeo. If there were multiple copies, he would also order them as gifts. It was a happy partnership. He introduced me to the philosopher Hans-Georg Gadamer saying: “This is my bookseller”. He flattered me, I didn't deserve it.

However, modesty aside, in its past it has an illustrious clientele.

It was inevitable: I spent more than twenty years at the Port'Alba Guide, then at Gaetano Colonnese and now I collaborate with Nunziante Pironti. Giorgio Napolitano usually stopped by the bookshop to buy the literature of the moment; Eduardo De Filippo, surly but ready to melt into cordiality when he found an old theater poster; Michele Prisco, of talkative sympathy; Elena Croce, who nicknamed me “the gentleman bookseller”. Modesty aside.

How did his career start?

I was still in elementary school when a classmate who worked as a delivery boy at the Guide told me they were looking for a new helper. I started sweeping the premises, bringing breakfast, making deliveries. Then, gradually, I fell victim to the fascination of books.

Memories of when he brought them home?

An instructive apprenticeship that allowed you to round up with tips. Not always though: Riccardo Ricciardi compensated us with an orange or an apple; Domenico Rea didn't even give a coin; Luigi Incoronato, who took his own life in 1967, was kind and always tired, with an absent sadness. When he died, I overheard a discussion in the bookshop between Prisco, Compagnone, La Capria and Rea about a collection to buy him a crown. Guess who was against spending.

You will be remembered for your opus magnum: the bibliographic guide to the first editions of twentieth-century Italian literature.

There are 2,500 by 322 authors: it took me thirty years to collect them, but putting the 20th century narrative back together was my dream. I would like to point out that I have a primary school diploma, so everything was the result of the passion and experience gained from discussions with academics, experts and collectors.

When does the Italian twentieth century end?

I am convinced that the last greats were Calvino and Umberto Eco.

What is its prevalent reading?

Of course, the cover flaps. They offer a first idea of ​​the work and often, reading it, it is corresponding.

What was the most exciting time at the bookstore?

'57-'58. First the publication of Pasternak's "Doctor Zhivago", then "The Leopard". I have never relived the feeling of such important releases.

How much is a first edition of the “Gattopardo” worth?

It sold even two thousand euros and I remember having sold two copies even in France, but with the advent of the Internet the market went crazy. The booksellers were initially happy because they could sell something more online. Then they realized that it's a race to the bottom where anyone can improvise in the trade: fifty years of experience is no longer needed.

Readers enjoy it.

Is it certain? Anyone who finds a first edition of Manganelli in a bookshop for 50 euros may not buy it, because they go to Google and find it halfway through. Regardless of the conditions, the rarity, he places the order and the copy arrives in a deplorable state. The public is disoriented, also due to the rarefaction of bibliophiles: out of ten that have been lost over time, we recover one or two new ones, especially among those who collect the Novecento. Sometimes I think: thank goodness I'm old.

But he still gets excited.

Well, it will be sad to say but the most exciting moment is when we acquire a private library from the heirs. The pleasure of opening the boxes and envelopes in the bookstore to see what comes out is priceless. A few rarities, a first edition… After all, it is also a joy to give books a second life.

Is it the buyer who chooses a work or is it the other way around?

If we talk about the esotericism of the book, it works for those who believe in it.

Which first edition did you love the most?

"White Horses" by Aldo Palazzeschi, thirty-five copies printed by himself.



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