It’s a refrain I don’t often use, but when I do, it usually involves books. Not too long ago I was singing this tune — more of a lament when I caterwaul — over the then-impending sale of author Patrick Kearney’s Oympia Press collection. But, as you can see from the Christie’s listing, I would’ve need a lot of disposable income to secure his collection and, alas, I’m too poor a pauper to ever contemplate such a transaction. Thus, I sing my lament.

Kearney is a long-time bibliographer, not just of Olympia Press but of many other lines of erotic fiction from the mid- to late-twentieth century. He was profiled in Geoff Nicholson’s wonderful work, Sex Collectors: The Secret World of Consumers, Connoisseurs, Curators, Creators, Dealers, Bibliographers, and Accumulators of “Erotica” Bibliographic research is part literary dedective work, part obsession with detail and while I greatly admire Kearney’s accomplishments, the nature of the beast means I’ll only ever be a wallflower of a dilettante. I simply haven’t the attention span to become a bibliographer.

That doesn’t mean I’m not fascinated by Olympia Press. I am. I’ve written about it. I collect its titles — my favorite acquisition is six titles beautiful rebound in leather. The bindings actually hurt their value, but I found them so charming I couldn’t resist. Plus, I could afford them.

However, I’m not a rich man. Until I am, I’ll content myself with Kearney’s recently released book, The Paris Olympia Press. The book details the history of Olympia Press, from its publishing activities to biographical sketches of its authors, from its literary achievements to its battles with censorship. Plus it’s a significant bibliography. Thus, my fascination and admiration can continue unbated.