I am sure that many of the feelings Jenny Scarboro expressed
concerning the ethics of shell collecting are appreciated by many
involved in conchological pursuits, myself included.  I must however
take exception to one of her premises, namely the suggestion that
paying cash for something, or assigning a monetary value to it,
necessarily undermines or eradicates its noncommercial value,
transforming it into a mere "commodity".  I believe that some things
have intrinsic value, while the value of other things depends
primarily on their utility.  Utilitarian value can be appreciated by
just about anyone, depending on their immediate needs.  Anyone
needing to remove a screw can appreciate the value of a screwdriver.
However, virtually no-one holds a screwdriver in his hand, looks at
it, and senses a deeper value distinct from its utility in turning
screws and similar mechanical applications.  People are willing to
pay a price for such an object.  The price is a means of accessing
the utility, since most people lack the ability to make a screwdriver
themselves.  But there is no deeper meaning, no intrinsic value.  A
screwdriver is a commodity, pure and simple.
In contrast, a Rembrandt hanging in a museum has little utilitarian
value (unless they are using it to cover a hole in the wall), but it
has tremendous intrinsic value.  The fact that the museum paid a lot
of money to obtain the object does not detract from its intrinsic
value, nor reduce the object to a mere commodity.  The idea of a
teacher telling the class "the museum payed five million dollars for
this, so appreciate it" is abhorrent to anyone in a position to
recognize the true value of the piece.  Likewise, the attitude "who
would pay that kind of money for a few ounces of paint smeared on
canvas" would strike many of us as intolerable.  Yet undoubtedly some
do see it that way, for intrinsic value is not obvious to the masses -
only to those who have cultivated, or been endowed with, the ability
to recognize and appreciate it.  For those who possess the ability to
see below the surface, and feel what is hidden within and beyond the
physical presence of the painting, the price paid for it was simply a
means to an end, and has no bearing whatsoever on its real value.
Indeed, monetary considerations are the farthest thing from such a
person's mind as he/she stands in awe before such a great work.
So, where do shells fit in?  Obviously when a manufacturer of
trinkets for gift shops orders a hundred pounds of money cowries from
a commercial supplier, he and the supplier are dealing in a commodity.
 The intent is utilitarian, just as Rembrandt's purchases of paint and
brushes were.  They are going to be used  to make something.  Anyone
can understand that, whether they can appreciate the finished product
or not.  However, I see the purchase and sale of specimen shells as
very distinct from that scenario.  Specimen shells have no
utilitarian value (unless they are used in malacological research).
Every specimen shell is a unique work of art, to those who possess
the insight to appreciate it.  Dollars may exchange hands in
acquiring such an object, whether a Rembrandt or a Cypraea, so that
its intrinsic value might be experienced - but the value is neither
defined by the sale price nor reduced by the fact that it was sold
and purchased.  Yes, I am a shell dealer, a commercial operation.
However, in that capacity I think of myself as providing a service,
rather than peddling a commodity.  If I wanted to deal in a
commodity, I could avoid many hassles with sources of supply,
shipping, quality, availability and product consistency by dealing in
hardware.  However, I could never love pliers and screwdrivers.  I
love shells.  I have handled hundreds of Cypraea mappa over the past
forty years - yet every time I unwrap a new specimen received from a
supplier, I am struck by its unique beauty, its individual charm.  I
have never seen a specimen quite like this one, because there has
never been, and never will be another specimen quite like this one.
In holding it, examining it, experiencing it, I can reclaim some
small measure of the excitement and awe I knew forty years ago when I
opened that little box from Richard Kurz, and held in my very own
hands the first honest-to-goodness Cypraea mappa I had ever seen.
Holding the Hope Diamond could not have impressed me more.  That is
the value this new specimen holds for me, not the few dollars I will
eventually exchange it for; and when I do pass it on to someone else,
my hope is that it will bring that person as much pleasure as it
brought me - maybe even as much pleasure as my very first mappa did.
I suspect that I speak for most retail shell dealers in this regard,
as I doubt that a person who does not feel this way would be very
effective in serving collectors who do.