No Autographs, Please!

Recently, I faced a conundrum in a bookstore: It had the book I wanted, but its only copy was a signed edition. I stood frozen by the cashier, unable to decide whether to buy it or to return it to the shelf.

“Are you sure you don’t any other copies?” I asked, all but pleading.

People like signed editions, she told me.

At that point, I tried to explain that it’s a long-standing policy of mine not to acquire or accept signed editions…

Before I was a published novelist and essayist, and before I became a columnist for the Wall Street Journal, an essay I’d written appeared in the New York Times Magazine. It was reprinted in an anthology published the Times, which hosted a cocktail party for the contributors. I had never been to such an event before and hardly knew what was expected.

Not much, it turned out. We received a copy of the book, someone toasted us and we mingled a bit. I didn’t notice that the contributors were asking each other to autograph their books. Until Isaac Asimov approached me.

I knew Asimov by reputation, but was unaware that he had an essay in the anthology. I was surprised when he asked me to sign his book, which I did. Then, mutton-chopped and with dark-rimmed glasses, he asked if I wanted him to sign my copy.

“No thank you,” I replied.

He seemed taken aback. But he moved on.

I didn’t learn until much later that I had committed a breach of protocol that was made worse when I was told of the joy Asimov took in signing autographs.

If he cared at all, I could’ve explained. The anthology was my first. It was a handsome hardcover book. I was just starting out and I wanted to present a pristine edition to my mother who had passed along to me her love of reading. I hadn’t given a thought to anyone signing it but me.

I never did meet Asimov again. He died nine years before my first novel was published. By then, I had promised myself that I would make amends for having insulted Isaac Asimov by never asking any author to sign a book for me.

That promise has caused me a bit of trouble across the years. I recall an event at a convention of mystery writers in which the great David Liss gave a presentation. Afterwards, he saw me with one of his books and asked if I wanted him to sign it. When I said no, he seemed taken aback. Later, I saw him slip into a car for a trip to the airport. I jumped in and rode with him, explaining that I hadn’t meant to offend.

A friend tried to give me a present of a Jonathan Santlofer novel he signed “To Jim…” I told her I couldn’t accept it.

Many times I’ve sat at tables with a dozen or so fellow authors signing anthologies in which we all appeared. I kept my copy in my lap in order for it to remain unsigned.

A question for my fellow authors and book lovers I’ve run into at readings: Have you ever seen me buy a book when its author is present? I don’t because I don’t want to be put in a position to decline an autograph. When the event is at the Mysterious Bookshop in New York – where the cashiers are by the door – I buy the book and then leave, my copy as clean as when it left the warehouse.

This anti-autograph position extends beyond the book world, by the way. I’ve interviewed in person several hundred rock stars and Hollywood types and I’ve never asked for an autograph. I love the film stars of yesterday and when my wife Diane and I entered a diner in New York and saw Richard Widmark, I just about melted. But I didn’t ask him to sign a napkin or some such. Same with Gregory Peck: We attended a private event at the Chateau Marmont. No autograph request from me. Incredibly, Yves Saint Laurent once asked me if I’d like to have my picture taken with him. I said yes, but didn’t ask for an autograph. Someone gave Diane and me a piece of canvas signed by Alfred Molina when he starred on Broadway as Mark Rothko in “Red.” “It’s yours,” I said to Diane, who needed no explanation regarding my decision.

By now, it’s likely you’ve concluded that what began as an innocuous tribute to Asimov has become an unhealthy trait that falls somewhere between affectation and obsession.

I reached the same conclusion about halfway through my explanation to the bookstore cashier. I purchased “The Boys: A Memoir of Hollywood and Family” by Ron and Clint Howard even though they both had signed it.

Know what? Having a signature in the book doesn’t affect the content at all. And Isaac Asimov has yet to appear in a dream to accuse me of betrayal.