Hurrying up Lexington Avenue in unreliable spring weather, I’m struck by a momentary illusion that I’m in a 1950s horror film. The crowd milling around me – that distinctive New York mass of humanity seen in countless movies – appears to be filled with familiar faces. It’s as if the bodies of New Yorkers have been snatched and replaced by those of people known to me. And then reality dawns. I do know all these people. We’re rare-book sellers and we’re walking, with varying degrees of ambulatory skill, towards the cavernous loading bay of the Fifth Avenue Armory, venue of the sixty-fifth annual New York International Antiquarian Book Fair. In rare-book circles, the fair is the leading event of the year (on the socials, it’s NYIABF – one of those abbreviations that doesn’t seem any less cumbersome than spelling the name out in full). Big things happen here. 

This year promises to be pivotal for our London-based company because we’re opening a New York gallery. Our new space is on East 67th Street, a block away from the Armory, and our launch party is timed to coincide with the opening of the book fair. One venerable New York dealer gives us a roll call of London antiquarian booksellers who’ve opened a Manhattan branch down the years, urging us not to make the same mistakes. Exactly what those mistakes were, he doesn’t say. We laugh it off and feel generally welcomed.

Our gallery is on the third floor (American style) of what was originally a brownstone, though the facade has been softened with curves and rendered cream, with ornate balustrades in the Beaux Arts style added in the early 20th century. I’ve seen photographs of the exterior, but nothing prepares me