Memories by Monthly Installment : Respond promptly to reserve for your heirs one of the limited edition of just 49,900 sets of Elvis collector cards.

I understand the passion for possessions. I understand why people are driven to collect rare books, old maps, fine gems--or even shells, rocks, clocks. I appreciate why Bill Gates would pay just south of $31 million for the Codex Hammer. What I can’t fathom is why anyone wants to collect what are called “collectibles.”

Collectibles are objects created for the sole purpose of being collected. They have no past for our hands to stretch toward. There is no former owner to whom they meant something, no earlier time to which they belonged, no particular place from which they came, nothing to give these objects meaning or magic.

To collect minerals is to learn about nature. To collect postage stamps is to discover the rise and fall of nations. To collect collectibles is to collect collectibles, an exercise in solipsism.

The criteria for true collecting should surely include rarity, quality and beauty. These attributes are all missing from today’s collectibles--mostly plates, trading cards, dolls and figurines. To acquire these items, one doesn’t send in an order form; rather, one “submits” a “reservation application,” as if the company in question were going to study the matter and decide whether to honor us with one of its prized products. The advertisements for plates usually describe them as designed by a world-renowned or award-winning artist (whom one has never heard of) and as restricted in number: “This limited edition will be closed forever after just 150 firing days.” Just? They can crank out a lot of plates in five months. A distributor of Elvis collector cards urges us to respond promptly to avoid disappointment since the cards are “strictly limited to only 49,900 sets.” When it comes to collectibles, the word limited loses its integrity.

If we collect something that is rare, we enjoy the never-ending search. With collectibles, there is no thrill of discovery, no battles to fight. Collectibles are available everywhere every day to everyone--as long as we pay the monthly installments. Works of art are unique, individual and alive. Collectibles are essentially dead and interchangeable--the stillborn offspring of the mercantile mind.

Though collectibles are described in ads in lavish terms (“reminiscent of Renaissance sculpture,” “a masterpiece of splendor”), no one with a discerning eye could find innate quality in these trashy goods. Instead, the manufacturers attempt to impose quality from without, such as hand-numbering in 24 karat gold. And what in heck is a “certificate of authenticity” on an object that is inherently inauthentic? I know what it means to speak of a genuine Chippendale chair, but what is there to verify about a bisque music box that plays “Blue Hawaii”?

How can these objects be called “heirlooms”? They haven’t been lovingly passed on from one generation to another. They come directly from a factory. A friend of mine admits that she collects old teddy bears and antique dolls to alleviate the pain of leftover childhood loneliness. But what comfort is provided by brand-new porcelain dolls that no child has cherished?

Most collectibles are hideous, with figurines tending to be the worst. Statuettes of Garfield the Cat. Disney characters sticky with sweetness. Teardrop-eyed children so cloying that they make even Hummels look sublime by comparison.

Yet chacun a son gout. If you like plates with puppies on them, it’s fine with me. Display those dolls. Pile up those Precious Moments. Save the certificates. But don’t kid yourself into believing that you’re building a valuable collection of art objects that you can someday sell for a small fortune at Christie’s. You are simply amassing mass-produced knickknacks.