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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8b60669 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #69175 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69175) diff --git a/old/69175-0.txt b/old/69175-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8e1717b..0000000 --- a/old/69175-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6252 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The seven stairs, by Stuart Brent - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The seven stairs - -Author: Stuart Brent - -Release Date: October 17, 2022 [eBook #69175] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Guus Snijders, Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was - produced from images made available by the HathiTrust - Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEVEN STAIRS *** - - - - - - ---------------------------------------------------------------- - - Transcriber’s note: - - This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical - effects. Italics are delimited with the '_' character as _italic_. - The illustrations with a caption have been replaced with - [Illustration: caption]. - - The few minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been - corrected. Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of this - text for details regarding the handling of any textual issues - encountered during its preparation. - - ---------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - THE - - SEVEN - - STAIRS - - - - - Stuart Brent - - THE - - Houghton Mifflin Company Boston - - SEVEN - - The Riverside Press Cambridge - - STAIRS - - Nineteen Sixty-Two - - - - - First Printing - - Copyright © 1962 by Stuart Brent - All rights reserved including the right - to reproduce this book or parts thereof - in any form - - Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 62-8119 - The quotation on pages 89 and 90 is from _The - Literary Situation_ by Malcolm Cowley. Copyright - 1954 by Malcolm Cowley. Reprinted by permission - of the Viking Press, Inc. - - The Riverside Press - Cambridge · Massachusetts - Printed in the U.S.A. - - - - - To - my - mother - and - father - - - - - Acknowledgments - -In a real sense, this book is an acknowledgment to all who have had a -part in shaping my life and being. Since their names appear only -incidentally and accidentally—if at all—in the course of the text, I -hope with all my heart that they will accept this collective note of -gratitude for all their help. - -In particular, however, I wish to mention Hardwick Moseley for his -encouragement when the going was rough; Milton Gilbert who made the -Seven Stairs possible in the first place; Henry Dry, one of the few -men I know who understand the meaning of forbearance; Goldie and -Kalmin Levin (Jennie’s mother and father) for their devotion and -unfailing help; Robert Parrish for his blue penciling; and Hope, who -after giving birth to our son, Joseph, tenderly cared for the unstrung -father through the pangs of giving birth to _The Seven Stairs_. - - S. B. - - - - - Contents - - - 1. And Nobody Came 1 - - 2. “Read Your Lease. Goodbye.” 5 - - 3. How to Get Started in the Book Business 15 - - 4. Building the Seven Stairs 29 - - 5. The Day My Accountant Cried 49 - - 6. The Man with the Golden Couch 58 - - 7. Farewell to the Seven Stairs 75 - - 8. On the Avenue 87 - - 9. Bark Point 110 - - 10. Hope and I 130 - - 11. My Affair with the Monster 141 - - 12. Life in the Theatre 169 - - 13. Writing and Publishing 179 - - 14. Books and Brent 195 - - - - - THE - - SEVEN - - STAIRS - - - - - 1 - And Nobody Came - - -I might as well tell you what this book is about. - -Years ago I started to write a memoir about a young fellow who wanted to -be a book dealer and how he made out. I tore it up when I discovered the -subject had already been covered by a humorist named Will Cuppy in a -book called, _How to Become Extinct_. - -Now I’m not so sure. I’m still around in my middle-aged obsolescence and -all about us the young are withering on the vine. Civilization may beat -me yet in achieving the state of the dodo. The tragedy is that so few -seem to know or really believe it. Maybe there just isn’t enough -innocence left to join with the howl of the stricken book dealer upon -barging into the trap. Not just a howl of self-pity, but the yap of the -human spirit determined to assert itself no matter what. There’s some -juice in that spirit yet, or there would be no point in submitting the -following pages as supporting evidence—hopefully, or bitterly, or both. - -Let there be no doubt about my original qualifications for the role of -Candide. With three hundred dollars worth of books (barely enough to -fill five shelves), a used record player, and some old recordings (left -in my apartment when I went into the army and still there upon my -return), I opened the Seven Stairs Book and Record Shop on the Near -North Side of Chicago. - -The shop was located in one of the old brownstone, converted residences -still remaining on Rush Street—a fashionable townhouse district in the -era after the Great Chicago Fire, now the kind of a district into which -fashionable townhouses inevitably decline. One had to climb a short -flight of stairs above an English basement (I thought there were seven -steps—in reality there were eight), pass through a short, dark hall, and -unlock a door with a dime store skeleton key before entering finally -into the prospective shop. It was mid-August of 1946 when I first stood -there in the barren room. The sun had beaten in all day and I gasped for -air; and gasping, I stood wondering if this was to be the beginning of a -new life and an end to the hit-or-miss of neither success nor failure -that summed up my career to the moment. - -It all fitted my mood perfectly: the holes in the plaster, the ripped -molding, the 1890 light fixture that hung by blackened chains from the -ceiling, the wood-burning fireplace, the worn floor, the general air of -decay lurking in every corner. Long before the scene registered fully -upon my mind, it had entered into my emotions. I saw everything and -forgave everything. It could all be repaired, painted, cleaned—set right -with a little work. I saw the little room filled with books and records, -a fire going, and myself in a velvet jacket, seated behind a desk, being -charming and gracious to everyone who came in. - -I saw success, excitement, adventure, in the world I loved—the world of -books and music. I saw fine people coming and going—beautiful women and -handsome men. I saw myself surrounded by warmth, friendship and good -feeling, playing my favorite recordings all day, telling my favorite -stories, finding myself. - -I ran my fingers over the mantelpiece. “I want this room,” I said to -myself. “I want it.” - -I built shelves to the ceiling and bought all the books I could buy. -There was no money left to buy the velvet jacket. Every morning I opened -the store bright and early. Every night I closed very late. And no one -came to visit me. Morning, noon, and night it was the same. I was alone -with my books and my music. Everything was so bright, so shiny, so -clean. And the books! There were not very many, but they were all so -good! Still nobody came. - -How do you go about getting people to buy books? I didn’t know. I had -been a teacher before the war. My father was not a business man either, -nor his father. No one in my family knew anything about business. I knew -the very least. - -Every morning I walked into the shop freshly determined: today I will -sell a book! I hurried with my housekeeping. And then, what to do? Phone -a friend or a relative. I couldn’t think of a relative who read or a -friend who wouldn’t see through the thin disguise of my casual greeting -and understand the ulterior purpose of my call. - -One late afternoon it happened. One of the beautiful people I had -dreamed about _came in_. - -She stood on the threshold, apparently debating whether it was safe to -venture further. “Is this a bookstore?” she said. - -“Please come in,” I said. “It’s a bookshop.” - -She was solidly built and had a round face above a heavy neck with the -fat comfortably overlapping the collar of her white dress. Her legs were -sturdy, her feet were spread in a firm stance, she was fat and strong -and daring. - -“Do you have a copy of _Peace of Mind_?” said my daring first customer. - -Everyone was reading the rabbi’s book that summer—except me. It was a -bestseller; naturally I wouldn’t touch it. But here was a customer! - -“Lady,” I said, opening my business career on a note of total -capitulation, “if you’ll wait here a moment, I’ll get the book for you.” -She nodded. - -“Please,” I added, running out the door. - -I sprinted four blocks to A. C. McClurg’s, the wholesaler from whom I -bought my original three hundred dollars’ worth of books, and bought a -single copy of _Peace of Mind_ for $1.62. Then I ran back to complete my -first sale for $2.50. - -The realization overwhelmed me that I was totally unprepared to sell a -book. I had no bags or wrapping paper. I had no cash register or even a -cigar box. It seemed highly improper to accept money and then reach into -my pocket for change. It was a long time, in fact, before I could get -over the embarrassment of taking anyone’s money at all. I found it very -upsetting. - - - - - 2 - “Read Your Lease. Goodbye.” - - -The near North Side of Chicago is a Greenwich Village, a slum, and a -night life strip bordered by the commerce of Michigan Boulevard and the -Gold Coast homes and apartments of the wealthy. - -Into a narrow trough between the down-and-out losers of Clark Street and -the luxurious livers of Lake Shore Drive flows a stream of life that has -no direction, organization, or established pattern. Here are attracted -the inner-directed ones struggling with their own visions, along with -the hangers-on, the disenchanted and emotionally bankrupt. It is a haven -for the broken soul as well as the earnest and rebellious. The drug -addict, the petty thief, the sex deviant and the alcoholic are -generously mixed in among the sincere and aspiring. There are the -dislocated wealthy, the connivers and parasites, abortionists and pimps. -There are call girls and crowds of visiting firemen, second hand -clothing stores and smart shops, pawn brokers and art supply stores. - -Gertrude Stein once wrote about Picasso’s reply to a young man who was -seeking advice on the best location for opening a Parisian bookstore: “I -would just find a place and start selling books.” Well, I found a place, -uniquely unfavored as a crossroads of commerce (during the day, -virtually no one was on the street), but teeming with the malcontents, -the broken, the battered—the flotsam and jetsam of urban life, along -with inspired or aspiring prophets, musicians, artists, and writers. -What more could one ask? - -The original dimensions of the Seven Stairs were fifteen feet by nine -feet. A single bay window looked onto Rush Street. At the other end of -the room stood a small sink. The bathroom was on the second floor and -seldom worked. Three ashcans on the sidewalk by my window served the -building for garbage disposal. Occasionally the city emptied them. - -Across the hall was a hat shop—a blind for a call girl establishment. -The woman who ran it was actually a hat maker and made hats for her -girls. She was a heavy woman with enormous breasts, who wore immense -earrings, always dressed in black silk, and changed her hair dye -regularly: red, jet black, once silver-grey. She had a small, bow-shaped -mouth, garishly painted, and in the four years I knew her an improper -word never passed her lips. She was filled with commiseration for cats, -at least a dozen of which wandered in and out of the hall daily. Once in -a while, she would buy a book, always with a fifty dollar bill, and then -was very apologetic for the inconvenience when I had to run to the drug -store for change. - -Behind my shop was another studio occupied by a charming hypochondriacal -ballet dancer and a boy friend who was the tallest, ugliest man I had -ever encountered. Above were two more studios, occupied by a painter and -a girl who wrote poetry. There were also two studios on the third floor, -but to this day I have no idea who was there. A bricklayer lived in the -basement with his odd and rather pretty daughter, who had bad teeth, a -nervous tic, and huge, burning black eyes. - -Over this assortment of humanity ruled an evil king who in my reasoned -opinion was in fact Mephistopheles in the guise of a landlord. His life -had its meaning in seeing that the innocent were punished, that -neighbors were aroused to hate and distrust one another, and that -needless disaster always threatened his subjects and often befell them. - -It was amazing how he could achieve his devilish ends by the simple -incantation, “Read your lease. Goodbye.” This was his message, whether -in the inevitable phone call when you were a day late with the rent, or -in answer to your call for help when the fuses in the basement blew or -when on a bitter February night the sink broke and the shop began -floating away. - -The sink affair occurred at a point when my business had developed to -the extent of a few regular accounts and come to a quiet stalemate. Once -these faithful customers had come in, I was through for the month. I -could scarcely stand the empty hours waiting for someone to talk with. -It was bitter February, cold enough to keep any sensible soul off the -streets. I sat before the fire, filled with self-pity, my doomed life -stretching hopelessly before me. Finally I bestirred myself—and this was -my undoing. - -All I did was throw a carton up to a shelf—a sort of basketball toss -that missed. The box hit the sink, tipped off, and, incredibly, broke an -aged lead water pipe. To my horror, water began gushing over the floor. -I tried to stuff a towel into the pipe. No good. My beautiful shop! All -the beautiful books! Ruin! - -Still holding the towel to the pipe with one hand, I dialed my father’s -telephone number. He was a sound man concerning the mechanical world. - -“Do you have a broom?” he said. “All right, cut it in two and make a -plug for the pipe. Then call your landlord.” - -I went to work frantically. All the time water was pouring across the -floor. Finally I managed to whittle a temporary plug. Then I phoned the -landlord. - -He inquired of my business success. - -“Please,” I said. “The pipe to the sink has broken. My store will be -ruined. Where is the shut-off?” - -“I don’t know where the shut-off is,” he said. “You are responsible. -Read your lease. Goodbye.” - -I turned to the City Water Department next. By the time I explained to -them what had happened and they examined their charts and discovered -where the cut-offs might be located, I was standing in an inch of water. - -Someone would be over, I was assured. But not right away. In a few hours -perhaps. All the men were out on emergencies. However, I could try to -find the cut-offs myself. They were outside near the street lamp about a -foot from the curb. - -I stuck my head out the door. It was about ten degrees above zero, and -the ground along the curbing was covered with at least five inches of -ice and snow. What to do? And all the time, more water was bubbling over -the broom handle and splashing onto the floor. - -Down at the corner there was a drug store owned by a man of infinite -patience and understanding. No human act was beyond his comprehension or -forgiveness, and he was always ready to help in moments of crisis. If a -girl needed help, our man at the drug store was there. If she needed -work, legitimate or otherwise, he could find the spot for her. If a man -needed to make a touch, he could get it without interest. Our druggist -was no fence or law breaker—but he was an answering service, a father -confessor, and an unlikely guardian angel. I ran to him with my trouble. - -He looked at me with his sleepy eyes, and, his soft lips forming quiet -assurances, came up with a shovel, an ax, and a pail of hot water. - -The problem was where to dig. I went at it blindly, saying to myself: -“Shovel. Shovel. Die if you must. But shovel.” - -When I had gotten an area of snow removed, I poured water over the ice -and went at it with the ax. Finally I struck the top of the box -containing the cut-offs and managed to pry open the lid. There were two -knobs in the box, and having no idea which one related to my store, I -turned them both shut. - -After returning the hardware to the drug store, I sloshed back into my -inundated establishment and began sweeping the water out with what was -left of the broom. Working like a madman, I got most of the water out -into the hall, out the door, and over the stairs, where it froze -instantaneously. Never mind—tomorrow I will chop the ice away and all -will be well. - -By this time, my strength was exhausted and the shop was nearly as cold -as the outdoors. I felt as though I had survived some kind of monstrous -test. I dumped logs on the fire, waited until they were ablaze, then -stripped off my wet shoes and socks and wrapped my frozen feet in my -coat. - -I was sure I had caught pneumonia. I wouldn’t be able to open the store -for weeks. The few accounts I had would surely be lost. It was the end -of everything. How good it would be if only death would come now, while -there was yet a little warmth to taste in a world which certainly wanted -nothing of my kind. - -Out of my reverie, I heard a bitter cry. It came from outside near my -door. I jumped up and looked down the hall. Two men in evening dress -were wrestling on the stairs. The screaming and cursing were awful. At -last they scrambled up and started toward me. - -“You son of a bitch,” one of them cried. “I’ll kill you!” His fall on -the stairs had damaged his suit. Bits of ice had collected about his -long nose, a few even glistened in his moustache. His hair practically -stood on end. Snow and ice covered his jacket and patched his trousers. -His black tie was crooked and his dress shirt sodden. The other fellow -stared fiercely at me, restraining his partner with one hand, the other -balled into a fist, threatening me. “Who put you up to this? Why do you -want to ruin our business? You mother-raping bastard, I’ll cut your -throat!” He took a step forward. I stepped back. - -“Tell us or we’ll kill you here and now.” - -I had never seen these men before in my life. As I retreated toward my -desk, they swept the books off it onto the wet floor. They sat on the -desk and stared at me, and everything became very quiet. - -They were proprietors of the restaurant in the corner building, also -owned by my landlord. In shutting off the water, I had turned off -theirs, too. They also had called the landlord, and he told them that I -was undoubtedly responsible. But he failed to tell them what had been -happening to me. - -Now I showed them the broken pipe, the floor still wet in spots, my -hands which were raw and bruised. I picked up the books from the floor -and took off the wet dust jackets. Here goes my profit for a week, I -thought. I could tell their anger had cooled. Instead of being cruel, -they looked almost contrite. I went outside again in my wet shoes and -socks and coat and turned one of the shut-off keys. Naturally it was the -wrong one. The restaurant man pounded at the window to attract my -attention. I reversed my switches and restored their precious water. - -I remained in the shop a while, too exhausted and heartbroken to leave. -Where now, little man? I didn’t know. But I resolved never to call my -landlord again—no matter what. - -It was a fruitless resolve. One morning two inspectors from the Fire -Department paid me a visit. - -“Are those your logs under the stairs?” one of them asked. - -“Those are my logs,” I said. “But they are not under the stairs. They -are by a stone wall near the stairs.” - -“That makes no difference. It’s a fire hazard and someone has filed a -complaint. Get the logs out by tomorrow or we’ll close you up.” - -I remembered my landlord’s visit a week earlier. He had commented that I -had a good pile of logs which should make a warm fire. He twirled his -cane and looked at me from cat-grey eyes, set in a flabby yellow face -crushed in a thousand wrinkles. As he minced about on his tiny feet, -encased in patent leather pumps, I expected any moment to see the walls -part or the ceiling open for his exit. When he left in the normal way, -wishing me good luck and great success, I was sure he doffed his black -homburg to me. Almost sure. - -Now I threw my resolutions to the wind and phoned him, determined to -take the offensive at any cost. - -“Why did you call those fire inspectors?” I demanded. “Couldn’t you have -told me if I was breaking an ordinance?” - -The more my voice rose, the more he chuckled. - -Not long afterward a fat, tobacco chewing sloven entered the shop and -stood looking around carefully, swaying on the balls of his feet. I -thought he might be a tout, lost on his way to a bookie. - -“Where does this wire go?” he finally asked. - -“Go?” I said. “Who cares?” - -“Don’t get snotty with me, buddy,” he said. “I’m going to close you up. -I’m the city electrical inspector and we’ve got a complaint that your -wiring is a hazard to the building.” - -He continued to stand in the middle of the floor, his hands locked -behind his back, swaying back and forth like the old Jews on High -Holidays in the Synagogue. - -When he had gone, I called my landlord and cried, “Listen, you are -killing me with inspection. Wish me bad luck and bankruptcy and leave me -alone!” - -Of course I had to get an electrical contractor, whose workmen tore the -shop to pieces, removed perfectly good wiring, and replaced it. - -A week later a tall man in a Brooks Brothers suit and carrying an -attaché case came to collect the bill for $375.00. His smugness was so -overwhelming that I turned and walked away from him. As I moved along, -inspecting my bookshelves, he followed closely behind. I could see -myself walking down Rush Street, going to dinner, going home, with this -persistent, immaculate young man silently in attendance. Suddenly, -turning, I stepped squarely on his polished shoes. - -Excusing myself, I said, “You know, the man to pay you for this work is -my landlord. If the wiring was faulty between the walls, obviously I -have nothing to do with it. I’ll call him up. You can talk with him.” - -My landlord must have been surprised at my cheery voice. “I have an -interesting gentleman here who wants to talk with you,” I said. “He is a -genius. The work he did for you in the installation of BX wires between -the walls is something to be seen to be appreciated. You’ll marvel at -its beauty. Here he is.” - -I handed over the receiver. The storm of words coming from the other end -nearly blew the young man off his feet. I couldn’t contain my laughter. -I lurched over to a wall, holding my guts and laughing till I cried. It -was marvelous. Wonderful. I had reversed the tables at last. - -Naturally, I paid the bill. My landlord had new electrical outlets, but -our relations were different. He continued to take advantage of me, but -not any longer under the guise of wishing me “good luck” or a “great -success.” - -My landlord helped me. He taught me to be on guard. He taught me that it -is, in fact, cold outside. He put me on trial—rather like K in Kafka’s -_The Trial_. I could not just go running for help when trouble came. I -could no longer retreat into the fantasy of pretending that running a -bookstore was not a business. He taught me that the world requires -people to take abuse, lying, cheating, duplicity—and outlast them. - -Now when my landlord came to visit me, it was on an entirely new -emotional basis. Nothing was different in appearance, yet in feeling -everything was changed because I was no longer afraid. When he cheated -me now, it was only a cheap triumph for him. I was free because I had -become inwardly secure. I did not beat the Devil, but I knew positively -that the Devil exists, that evil is real. Let him do his worst—his -absolute worst—so long as you can handle yourself, he cannot ultimately -triumph. Where K failed in _The Trial_ was in his emotional inability to -handle his threatened ego. - -K’s trial is allegorical. So was my landlord. Only with the imagination -can we see through into what is real. My landlord was one of the -disguises of evil. I know now that had I let him throw me, I could never -have withstood the trials of reality that were to come. - - - - - 3 - How to Get Started - in the Book Business - - -I had decided to become a bookseller because I loved good books. I -assumed there must be many others who shared a love for reading and that -I could minister to their needs. I thought of this as a calling. It -never occurred to me to investigate bookselling as a business. - -Had I done so, I should have learned that eighty percent of all the -hardcover books purchased across the counter in America are sold by -twenty booksellers. If I had been given the facts and sat down with -pencil and paper, I could have discovered that to earn a living and -continue to build the kind of inventory that would make it possible to -go on selling, I would need to have an annual gross in the neighborhood -of $100,000! - -Even if I had had the facts in hand, they would not have deterred me. If -vows of poverty were necessary, I was ready to take them. And I refused -to be distressed by the expressions on people’s faces when I confided -that I was about to make a living selling books. Sell freight, yes. Sell -bonds or stocks or insurance, certainly. Sell pots and pans. But books! - -And I was not only going to sell books—I was going to sell _real_ books: -those that dealt seriously and truly with the spirit of man. - -I had finished cleaning and decorating my little shop before it dawned -on me that I did not know how to go about the next step: getting a stock -of books and records to sell. A study of the classified telephone -directory revealed the names of very few publishers that sounded at all -familiar. Was it possible there were no publishers in Chicago? If that -were the case, would I have to go to New York? - -There was a telephone listing for Little, Brown and Company, so I called -them. The lady there said she would be glad to see me. She proved to be -very kind and very disillusioning. - -“No,” she said, “the book business is not easy, and your location is -bad. No, the big publishers will not sell to you direct because your -account is too small. No, we at Little, Brown won’t either. If I were -you, I’d forget the whole idea and go back to teaching.” - -Everything was No. But she did tell me where I could buy books of all -publishers wholesale, and that was the information I wanted. I hastened -to A. C. McClurg’s and presented myself to the credit manager. - -The fact that I had a shop, nicely decorated, did not seem to qualify me -for instant credit. First I would have to fill out an application and -await the results of an investigation. In the meantime if I wanted -books, I could buy them for cash. - -“All right,” I said. “I want to buy three hundred dollars worth of -books.” - -“That isn’t very much,” the man said. “How big is your store?” - -“Well,” I said, “it’s fifteen feet long and nine feet wide, and I’m -going to carry records, too.” - -He shook his head and, with a sidewise glance, asked, “What did you say -your name was?” Then, still apparently somewhat shattered, he directed -me to a salesman. - -I launched into my buying terribly, terribly happy, yet filled with all -sorts of misgivings. Was I selecting the right books? And who would I -sell them to? But I had only to touch their brand new shiny jackets to -restore my confidence. I remember buying Jules Romain’s _Men of Good -Will_. In fifteen years, I never sold a copy. I’m still trying. I bought -Knut Hamson, Thomas Mann, Sigrid Undset, Joseph Hergesheimer, Willa -Cather, Henry James—as much good reading as I could obtain for $298.49. -I was promised delivery as soon as the check cleared. - -When the books arrived on a Saturday morning, it was like a first love -affair. I waited breathlessly as the truck drew up, full of books for my -shop. It wasn’t full at all, of course—not for me, anyway. My books were -contained in a few modest boxes. And I had built shelves all the way up -to the ceiling! - -Again, a moment of panic. Enough, my heart said. Stay in the dream! -What’s next? - -The next step was to get recordings. In this field, at least, I found -that all the major companies had branch offices in Chicago. I called -Columbia records and was told they’d send me a salesman. - -He arrived a few days later, blue eyed and blond haired, an interesting -man with a sad message. “No, we can’t open you up,” he said. “It’s out -of the question. Your store is in direct conflict with Lyon and Healy on -the Avenue. So there’s no question about it, we can’t give you a -franchise. We won’t. Decca won’t. And I’m sure RCA won’t.” - -I was overcome with rage. Didn’t he know I had fought to keep this -country free? Wasn’t there such a thing as free enterprise? Didn’t I -have a right to compete in a decent and honorable manner? If I couldn’t -get records one way, I’d get them another, I assured him. Strangely -enough, he seemed to like my reaction. Later he was able to help me. - -But for the present, I was reduced to borrowing more money from my -brother-in-law with which to buy off-beat recordings from an independent -distributor. I brought my own phonograph from home and my typewriter and -settled down to the long wait for the first customer. - -How do you get going in a business of which you have no practical -knowledge and which inherently is a doomed undertaking to begin with? -The only answer is that you must be favored with guardian angels. - -The first one to bring a flutter of hope into my life came into it on a -September afternoon at a luncheon affair, under I do not know what -auspices, for Chicago authors. There I encountered a distinguished -looking white-haired gentleman, tall but with the sloping back of a -literary man, standing mildly in a corner. I introduced myself to -Vincent Starrett, bibliophile and Sherlock Holmes scholar. He listened -attentively to my account of myself and took my phone number. A few days -later he called to ask for more information about my idea of combining -the sale of books and records. - -I pointed out that it was easy, for example, to sell a copy of Ibsen’s -_Peer Gynt_ if the customer was familiar with Grieg’s incidental music -for the play. Besides, reading and listening were closely allied -activities. Anyone with literary tastes could or should have equivalent -tastes in music. It was logical to sell a record at the same time you -sold a book. Mr. Starrett thought this was a fine idea, and to my -shocked surprise, wrote a paragraph about me in his column in the Book -Section of the _Chicago Sunday Tribune_. - -The Monday after the write-up appeared, I could hardly wait to get to -the shop. I expected it would be flooded with people. It wasn’t. The -phone didn’t even ring. I was disappointed, but still felt that hidden -forces were working in the direction of my success. Mr. Starrett’s kind -words were a turning point for me—I no longer felt anonymous. - -Some people did see the write-up—intelligent, charming, good people, -such as I had imagined gathering in my tiny premises. Among them were -two young women who were commercial artists. One day they complained -that there was nothing in the store to sit on, and after I had stumbled -for excuses, they presented me with a bench decorated on either side -with the inscriptions: “Words and Music by Stuart Brent,” and “Time Is -Well Spent with Stuart Brent.” Now I felt sure things were looking up. - -My next good genie and an important influence in my life was a short, -bald gentleman with horn-rimmed spectacles who stood uncertainly in the -doorway and asked, “Where’s the shop?” - -He was Ben Kartman, then Associate Editor of _Coronet Magazine_, a man -as kind and thoughtful as he is witty and urbane. He came in and looked -around, studied the empty shelves, and shook his head. He shook his head -often that afternoon. He wondered if I was seriously trying to be a -bookseller—or was I just a dreamer with a hideout? - -Surely I wanted to survive, didn’t I? Surely I wanted to sell books. -Well, in that case, he assured me, I was going about it all wrong. For -one thing, I had no sign. For another, I had no books in the windows. -And most important of all, I had no stock. How can you do business -without inventory? You can’t sell apples out of an empty barrel. - -I took all his comments without a sound. - -Then Ben said, “Sunday come out to the house. I’ve got a lot of review -copies as well as old but saleable books. Even if you don’t sell them, -put them on the shelves. The store will look more prosperous.” - -He gave me several hundred books from his library, which we hauled to -the store in his car. The Seven Stairs began to look like a real -bookshop. - -Ben Kartman also decided that I needed publicity. Not long afterward, my -name appeared in a daily gossip column in one of the Chicago newspapers. -Ben said that these daily puffers could be important to me, and this -proved to be the case. - -Meshing with my association with Kartman was another significant -influence—a man who certainly altered my life and might have changed it -still more had he lived. He was Ric Riccardo, owner of a famous -restaurant a quarter of a mile down the street from my shop, and one of -the most extraordinary and magnetic personalities I have ever -encountered. He was an accomplished artist, but it was his fire, his -avid love of life, his utterly unfettered speech and manner, his -infatuation both with physical being and ideas that drew the famous and -the somewhat famous and the plain hangers-on constantly to his presence. -He is the only great romantic character I have known. - -He first came into my store one day before Christmas. He wore a Cossack -fur hat and a coat with a huge mink collar and held a pair of Great -Danes on a leash. He had the physique of Ezio Pinza and the profile (not -to mention more than a hint of the bags beneath the eyes) of his friend, -the late John Barrymore. He was tremendous. He told me all he wanted was -some light reading to get his mind off his troubles. - -Later when Riccardo and the Danes entered the shop, virtually filling -it, I would stand on a chair to converse with him. He was very tall and -it gave me a better chance to observe him. Although his language was -often coarse, he shunned small talk or fake expressions. The only time -he ever reprimanded me was the day I used the phrase, “I’ve got news for -you.” As our friendship became firm, I would often join him after -closing the store for a bowl of green noodles (still a great specialty -of the restaurant which is now managed by his son). - -Now if, as Ben said, I did everything wrong, there was at least one -thing I certainly did not neglect to do. I talked to people. I knew my -books and I knew what I was talking about. Ideas were and are living -things to me and objects of total enthusiasm. It hurt me terribly if -someone came in and asked for a book without letting me talk with him -about it. The whole joy of selling a book was in talking about the ideas -in it. It was a matter of sharing my life and my thought and my very -blood stream with others. _That_ was why I had been impelled into this -mad venture—unrelated to any practical consideration beyond enthusiasm -for the only things that seemed to me to be meaningful. Ric was one of -those who responded to this enthusiasm. - -One very cold February morning, a cab stopped outside the shop. I saw -two men and a woman get out and come up the stairs. There was a good -fire going in the fireplace and it was quiet and warm inside. - -Ric was the only member of the trio I recognized, although the other man -looked at me as though I should know him. But the woman! She wore the -longest, most magnificent mink coat I had ever seen, the collar -partially turned up about her head. When she spoke, I backed away, but -she stepped in and extended her hand to me. It was Katharine Hepburn. - -“Oh, yes, that’s Katie,” the unidentified man said, and all of them -laughed at my obvious confusion. Miss Hepburn sat on my decorated bench -and held out her hands to the fire. - -Ric said, “Stuart, my boy, this is Luther Adler.” - -I was too nervous to say anything as we shook hands. I could only keep -staring at Katharine Hepburn. I adored her. I loved her accent and those -cheek bones and that highly charged voice. I wanted so much to do -something for her but I couldn’t think of anything to do. - -Suddenly Ric said, “Let’s buy some books.” - -Mr. Adler looked about and said, “Do you have a book for a Lost Woman?” - -I said, “Yes,” and handed him a copy of Ferdinand Lundberg’s new book, -_Modern Woman: The Lost Sex_. He gave it to Miss Hepburn, saying, “Here, -Katie, this is for you.” - -Without a pause, she turned and said, “Do you have a good book for a -Lost Jew?” - -“Yes,” I said, and produced a Sholem Asch volume. - -She gave it to Mr. Adler, saying, “Here, Luther, this is for you.” - -They bought many books that morning, and I was swept away in wonder and -exhilaration at the possibility of bringing happiness to Lost Women, -Lost Jews, the Beautiful and the Great, alike in their needs with all of -us for the strength and joy of the spirit. It was wonderful—but it was -awful when I had to take their money. - -A world very much like that of my dreams began to open up. People came. -Authors began to congregate around the fireplace. The shop was visited -by newspaper writers like Martha King, of the _Chicago Sun-Times_, who -wrote a charming article, for which I was deeply grateful. I was -beginning to do business, although still without a cash register. The -rent was paid promptly, and McClurg’s permitted me to have a charge -account. One or two Eastern publishers even let me have some books on -open account. And the man from Columbia Records kept dropping by, -leading me to believe that they might be thinking about me in spite of -their presumed obligations to Lyon and Healy. - -Why did people come, often far out of their way and at considerable -inconvenience? I was too busy to reflect upon the matter at the time. -There was nothing there but the books and me—and a great deal of talk. -But some need must have been filled—by moving people to take notice of -themselves, forcing them to think about what they were reading or what -they were listening to. We talked a lot of small talk, too, but it was -small talk with heart in it. And the effect was contagious. Those who -came told others and they came too. - -The place acquired a life of its own, which will be the subject of many -of the following pages. But that life, real and wonderful as it was, -could not endure. Perhaps it is worth writing about because it is _not_ -a success story—and what came after has its meaning in the reflected -tenderness and flickering hope those years taught one to cherish. - -This is not merely a sentimental record. It has no point unless seen -against the background of the cultural poverty of our society—and the -apparent economic impossibility of alleviating that poverty through -commercial channels such as the publication and distribution of books. - -The plain fact is, the kind of business I wanted to immerse myself in -does not exist. One of the reasons it does not exist is because the -publishing industry does not—and quite possibly cannot—support it, even -to the extent of supplying its reason for being: good books. The -business of publishing and the profession of letters have become worlds -apart. The arts are being bereft of their purpose through a horrifying -operation known as “the communications industry,” an industry geared for -junk eaters. - -Publishing is “bigger” and more profitable today than ever before, -largely because of the mushrooming of educational institutions and the -consequent demand for textbooks. Wall Street has gone into publishing; -there is money in it. But the money is in mass distribution—through the -schools, through the book clubs. It is little wonder that the -individual, personal bookseller is an anachronism, lost sight of by the -publishers themselves. The bookseller may feel outraged, as I did, when -a publisher sells him books, then sends out a mailing piece to the -bookseller’s customers offering the same books at a much lower price. -The practice is certainly unfair, but the bookseller has become a -completely vestigial distributing organ. What the publisher is really -looking forward to is the possibility that one of the book clubs will -take some of his publications, further slashing the price beyond the -possibility of retail competition. - -And what of the writer? If he can turn out bestsellers, he can live like -a potentate. But the sure-fire formula in this field is to pander to a -sex-starved culture and a dirty, vulgar one to boot. A book written by -this or any other formula can’t be worth anything. A true book must be -part of the individual’s life and spirit. - -It is commonplace to blame the public for what the public gets. And no -doubt the public must take the blame. But I am not interested in giving -the public what it wants if this means corrupting man’s spirit even -through as ineffectual a medium as the printed word. - -As a matter of fact, I have never had what people wanted to read (“Your -competitor just bought fifty copies of this title,” the publisher’s -representative would tell me, shaking his head hopelessly), and I lost -out because of it. But my personal satisfaction derived from -recommending some book, possibly an old one, that I thought would bring -the reader something fresh and real. - -Anything that touches the heart or stirs the mind has become a matter -for apology. I think of Mary Martin coming out on the stage in _South -Pacific_ and begging the audience’s indulgence and forgiveness for -having to admit to them that she was in love with a wonderful guy! - -Is it any wonder that modern men and women are so threatened, -frightened, and weak when they have lost the capacity for love, -tenderness and awe—capacities which should be nourished by what we read? -And especially the men. “Where are the men?” the women ask. Once a man -has joined “the organization,” the love of a real woman offers a basic -threat. The organization man doesn’t want to be challenged by a -relationship any more than by an idea. - -It was to these deficiencies in people’s lives that I had hoped to -minister. Reading remains a positive leverage to keep us from becoming -dehumanized. But easy reading won’t do it, or phony Great Book courses -that foster smugness and an assumed superiority (read the ads purveying -this kind of intellectual snobbery). - -We can’t go on devaluating the human spirit and expect some miracle to -save us. Even Moses couldn’t get the Red Sea to divide until a stranger -acted upon absolute faith and jumped in. I felt my job was to get people -to jump—to read something, old or new, that could engage them in some -real vision of human possibilities: to read Albert Camus or Graham -Greene or Rollo May or Erich Fromm. To read again (or for the first -time) Ibsen’s _Peer Gynt_ or Kafka’s _The Trial_, Bruno Bettleheim’s -_The Informed Heart_, F. S. C. Northrop’s _Philosophical Anthropology_, -or Father duChardin’s _The Phenomena of Man_. - -I decided I could sell a good book just as easily as a bad book. In the -days following the visit of Katharine Hepburn, I placed _Modern Woman: -The Lost Sex_ into the hands of many women, and the responses were -gratifying and illuminating. Finally I wrote a letter to Ferdinand -Lundberg, co-author of the book, telling him of one of the most -interesting of these incidents. He sent the letter along to Mary -Griffiths, then advertising manager for Harper and Brothers, who asked -permission to reprint it in its entirety as an ad in the _Chicago -Tribune_ book section. A phenomenal sale resulted. I sold hundreds of -copies and so did other Chicago booksellers. - -It looked as though things were opening up for me, as though I might be -on the way toward proving my point. And perhaps something was proved. -Much later when in a state of great depression I wrote a gloomy letter -to Hardwick Moseley, sales manager of Houghton Mifflin, he responded by -saying, “Never will I permit you to leave the book business. If we had -fifty more like you in the United States we might have a business!” But -for so many reasons, some of which I have just dwelt on, the odds -against fifty such enterprises flowering—or any of them flourishing—are -very, very great. - -Meantime, however, several colorful years of the Seven Stairs lay ahead, -and, beyond that, an unimagined range of encounter in the diverse realms -of art and letters, psychiatry, commerce, and, that monster of the age, -television. - - - - - 4 - Building the Seven Stairs - - -You’d be surprised how humiliating it can be to wrap books in cramped -quarters. - -As business grew, Saturday afternoon became a great but soul-shattering -time for me. The shop was filled with people, music, conversation. There -was the delicious thrill of selling, tarnished still by the dubious -proposition of taking money, and followed finally by the utter physical -subjugation of package wrapping. One moment I was riding a wave of -spiritual exhilaration; the next moment I was the contorted victim of -some degrading seizure as I grappled with paper and twine while people -pressed about me. The shop was too small! - -Ben Kartman had constantly encouraged me to expand. But expand where? -Well, there was a back room occupied by a dancer who had given up his -career because of a psychotic fear of travel. It was a fine, big room, -and it too had a fireplace. He was very friendly and I had helped him -find a bit of solace through Havelock Ellis’ _The Dance of Life_. The -only course now seemed to be to persuade him to move into one of the -vacant studios upstairs. This proved not difficult to do so far as he -was concerned, but what of our landlord? - -So again I was calling my landlord, and with his voice dripping with its -usual sweetness he invited me to come right over. - -It was all just the same, the little patent leather shoes, the pin -striped trousers, the pearl grey vest, the stickpin in the tie, the -waxed moustache, the mincing steps across the thick rugs of the rich, -imperious, and somewhat decayed quarters. There was the same circuitous -conversation with a thousand extraneous asides, but somehow it resulted -in my signing a two-year lease for the doubled space. And this time I -didn’t even need a co-signer. My landlord felt sure my success was as -good as made. - -I firmly believed I was on my way, too. I had suffered and nearly broken -more than once, but the dream was working. I was building a store with -love in it. I wasn’t merely selling books—I was teaching. And in my -awesome love for books, every package of fresh, new volumes, cold and -virginal to the touch, shining with invitation, returned my devotion -with a sensuous thrill. In discovering this world, I felt I had -discovered myself. I had been tested, and the future was open before me. - -Of course, I had no money. But I was young, my nervous system could take -endless punishment, my stomach could digest anything, and I could sleep -on a rock. Beholden to no one, I hit upon a principle: If an idea is -psychologically sound, it must be economically feasible. - -Now I was sure. The breakthrough was more than the penetration of a wall -into another room. It would be a breakthrough for my heart and a new -beginning in my life. - -The first thing to do was to bring in a building contractor. He surveyed -the situation and assured me that the job was simple—two men could do it -in a week. It would cost about one thousand dollars. - -Well what about it? Of course all of my profits were tied up in -increased stock, but I was certainly not going to let money check my -enthusiasm at this point. The time had come, I decided, to see about a -bank. Every day while riding the bus I saw signs offering me money on my -signature only. Do you want a new car? Need to pay old bills? Buy a car? -Buy a refrigerator? Buy anything? See your friendly banker. What really -decent fellows these bankers must be! - -I had also been told at the separation center that as a former soldier I -was entitled to certain kinds of help from a grateful government, which -included financial backing in any promising business venture. I could -not see anything standing seriously in the way of my borrowing a -thousand dollars for my breakthrough. - -Therefore, bright and early on a fine morning, I went to the bank. I had -dressed myself with care. My tie was straight and my shirt clean. I wore -my only suit. My shoes were shined. I had shaved carefully and brushed -my hair with purpose. After all, I reasoned, a banker is a banker—you -must respect him. I had never known a banker before in my life, and I -scare easily. - -When I sat down with the bank officer, I was glad I had taken care to -make a good impression, for he looked me over while I stated my -business. Apparently his mind was not on my attire, however. - -“Do you carry life insurance?” he said. - -“No, sir.” - -“Do you have a car?” - -“No, sir.” - -“Do you have stocks or bonds?” - -I felt slightly ill. No one in my entire life had ever mentioned stocks -or bonds to me. - -“Then what will you do for collateral?” - -Again a word no one had ever used in front of me. - -I tried another tack. “I believe I ought to tell you more about myself.” -Then my voice dried up. Tell him what? That when I was in college, I -learned the _Ode to the West Wind_ by heart? That I believed in the -impossible? That I would rather die than fail to meet an obligation to -his bank? It would never do ... not for this man with the pale, hard -eyes. - -He was not unkind to me. He pointed to a little, old lady across the -floor and said, “Now suppose that woman making a deposit were told that -I made a loan to you of one thousand dollars without the security of any -collateral, do you know what she could do? She could have me fired for -jeopardizing her savings.” - -I didn’t have the heart to ask about the happy signs in the buses, but -grasped at one last straw. “Isn’t it a fact,” I said, “that the -government will guarantee this kind of loan if I can show justification -for it?” - -He admitted this was correct. “But we’d rather not make that kind of -loan,” he said. - -That was twelve years ago. Today the banks are generous and I can get a -loan without shining my shoes or straightening my tie. The answer is -terribly simple. Banks only loan money to those who already have it. - -I walked defeated along Michigan Avenue under the cloudless sky. It was -all so simple, logical, and perfectly mechanical. I just couldn’t make -something out of nothing, no matter how strong my will or how deep my -faith. I had to have money. - -As I walked, a comment of my father’s flitted through my mind: “Some men -make it early in life, but you, my son, will make it a little late in -life. But you’ll make it.” I said to myself, “Look, nothing has changed. -Nothing at all. If you don’t expand, what of it? Are you beginning to -think of the kind of success that feeds the infantile longings of so -many adults? What’s wrong with what you’ve accomplished?” - -I remembered going to my father to talk about college. “Go to college,” -he told me. “It is very important to get a college education. I’m right -behind you.” - -“It takes money to go to college,” I said. - -“Money?” he said. “What fool can’t go to college with money? The idea is -to make it without money!” - -And so I did. - -I was feeling better when I reached the shop, but was still so deep in -my soliloquy that I rested my head on the desk and did not even hear Ben -Kartman’s steps when he came up the stairs. - -“What’s the trouble, Stuart?” he said, standing in the doorway looking -at me. - -“I went to the bank,” I told him. “They turned me down. I’m a poor -credit risk and they never heard of World War II, believe me. So -there’ll be no expansion.” - -“How much will the construction cost?” - -“A thousand dollars.” - -“But you’ll need some more money for stock and to fix the place up, -won’t you?” - -“I guess so.” - -“Well?” He began to laugh while I talked my problem out. Finally he -stopped laughing and I stopped talking. - -“Get your hat and come with me,” he said. “I’ll get you the money.” - -We went to the bank together. Ben signed the notes with his house as -collateral. I got the money and the breakthrough began. But I owed the -bank two thousand dollars! I no longer slept so well. - -Anyway, down went the partition and the Seven Stairs expanded. Joe -Reiner, then sales representative for Crown Publishers, happened in and, -observing that I needed more book shelving, took me to see Dorothy -Gottlieb, who was moving her Gold Coast bookstore to the Ambassador East -Hotel. She had plenty of shelving to sell. - -On a Sunday morning, Joe and I got a mover to bring in the new fixtures. -We came puffing and grunting in with the shelving and nearly annihilated -my sick ballet dancer, who was supposed to have moved out a week before. -He lay on a mattress in the middle of the floor and, upon seeing us, let -out a yell and drew the blankets up to his chin, crying, “What do you -think this is? A Frank Capra movie? Here I lie on my virtuous couch, too -ill to move, and you...!” - - -I developed several successful techniques for selling books. For -example, when I read a book that I liked very much, I would send out a -post card to everyone I believed might be interested in it also. There -is not much room on a post card, so the words describing the value of -the book had to be selected carefully. I avoided the dust jacket -phrases. “Great,” “brilliant,” and “exciting” won’t cut any mustard. You -must know your book and know your mailing list. - -Another technique was the use of the phone call—a very delicate tool -that must not be employed indiscriminately. The call must, first of all, -be made to someone who you are reasonably sure won’t resent it. And you -must know exactly what to say and say it quickly. - -When a friend came into the store, I might greet him with “Ah, guter -brudder, glad you stopped in. I have a book for you.” Or, “Here is a new -Mozart recording you must hear.” - -To have a successful book store means also to be a slave to detail. This -I found killing. Often I would struggle for hours to track down a title -someone had requested, go to the trouble of ordering it (more often than -not on a money in advance basis), only to find that the customer no -longer wanted the book. Or I would special order a book, run like a -demented fool over to the customer’s office to deliver it personally, -and discover that the wrong book had been ordered in the first place. -You could pretend to yourself that this kind of service would endear you -to the customer and cement a faithful relationship, but it didn’t always -work that way. - -I worked hard, but my customer relations were not always perfect. I -demanded that customers buy books for the same reasons that I sold -them—out of a serious regard for greatness. I could not stand having -myself or my books and records treated as a toy by the jaded and -self-satisfied. And I was a jealous god. Today I know better, yet I -instinctively back away from a customer who comes into the store -carrying a package from another bookseller. - -But well or poorly done, it took all kinds of doing: typing post cards, -making phone calls, washing and sweeping the floor, cleaning the windows -and shelves, running to the post office, delivering books, and talking -in the meanwhile on the mind of Spinoza, the beauty of the Mozart D -Minor Quartet, the narrative power of Hemingway, or the value of _The -Caine Mutiny_, which on first appearance was slow to catch on. - -Still, the business was developing. Each day I met someone new. Each day -presented new challenges to one’s strength and intuition and pure -capacity for survival. Around this struggle there developed a convivial -circle which was ample reward for anything. On any Saturday afternoon it -might include Nelson Algren, Jack Conroy, Studs Terkel, Ira Blitzsten, -Dr. Harvey Lewis, Marvin Spira, Evelyn Mayer, David Brooks and Dr. -Robert Kohrman, holding forth on an inexhaustible range of subjects, -filling the air with tobacco smoke, drinking fiercely strong coffee from -sometimes dirty cups, and munching salami and apples. The world of the -Seven Stairs was beginning to form. - - -For months I practically made a career of selling Nelson Algren’s -neglected volume of short stories, _The Neon Wilderness_. Nelson had -already received considerable acclaim for the book, as well as his -already published novels, _Somebody in Boots_ and _Never Come Morning_, -but short stories don’t sell (it is said). In any event, these stories -represent some of Algren’s finest work (which at its best is very fine -indeed), and I placed the book in the hands of everyone who came into -the shop. I sold hundreds of copies. Then to keep the book alive, we -held periodic parties. One month we would call it Nelson’s birthday, -another month the birthday of the publication of the book, still another -the birthday of the book itself. We invariably invited many of the same -people, along with new prospects. At one point, Ira Blitzsten was moved -to remark that he didn’t want Nelson to autograph his copy as he wanted -the distinction of being the only person in Chicago with an unsigned -copy. - -Algren is a tall, lanky individual with mussed blond hair and a -sensitive face, sometimes tight and drawn, sometimes relaxed. In those -days he wore steel rimmed spectacles and Clark Street clothes—a pin -stripe suit, a garish shirt, a ridiculous tie, in spite of which he -still had a fairly conservative bearing. Once he even wore a bow tie -that lit up. - -He is a quiet man. You sense he has a temper, but he seldom uses it. He -is an authority on the argot of the “wild side of the street,” and I -never heard him utter a vulgar word. He has the faculty of putting -others at ease. When he talks with you, he gives you a remarkable -singleness of attention. Even if the room is overflowing with people, -you know that he is listening only to you. - -He is a loner who reveals nothing of his private life. In fact, he never -gave me his address. When he is introduced to someone, he shakes hands -and nods his head at the same time. He gives you the simultaneous -impression of understanding and remoteness. You are not surprised to -find that his humor is sardonic. - -Nelson Algren and Jack Conroy could perform a remarkable duet on the -subject of James T. Farrell, Conroy in a broad Irish accent, Algren in a -clipped, half muttering manner. I never learned the personal source of -their animosity, but the name of Farrell had the magic to channel all -their hostilities and frustrations into a fountain of pure malice. It -was wonderful. - -Sometimes Nelson brought his mother. Sometimes he would bring with him -one of the girls related to the novel he was then writing, _The Man with -the Golden Arm_. One night Nelson took me to “the wild side.” We entered -a Clark Street tavern, a long, bare hall perhaps 150 feet long and -thirty feet wide. Along one wall stretched a huge bar. It was a busy -evening—every stool was occupied. We crossed the wooden floor to the -other side of the room where there were rows of small tables with -folding chairs set around them. Before we were seated, one of the men at -the bar slugged his woman in the mouth, and the two fell off their -stools, blood gushing, and landed, one on top of the other on the floor. -The bartenders came around and dragged them out, pitching them into the -street. - -A moment later one of the bartenders was at our table asking for our -order. He knew Nelson, and they chatted easily. I was, frankly, -sniffing, for as the stale beer smell of the place settled, I had a -sense of being literally in a zoo. - -As I looked about, I observed a mesh of wire fencing across the section -of the ceiling beneath which we were sitting. I got up and inspected. -There above us were live monkeys sitting on a bar behind the fence. I -sat down and asked Nelson what this meant. - -He said, “Wait and see.” - -The tavern din was terrible, a demonic blend of shouting, laughing, -swearing, name-calling—the human cries at inhuman pitch. It was out of a -Gorky novel. - -We drank several beers and waited, talking very little. Nelson’s face -seemed fixed in a slight smile of playful disdain. It was impossible to -say of what. - -My bafflement was intensified when two men walked in and approached the -place where we were sitting. They pulled a ladder from the wall, climbed -the steps, and opened the door of one of the cages. One of the men took -a monkey by the leather strap attached to its collar, placed it on his -back, and climbed down the ladder. He walked to the far end of the room, -opened a door, went in, and closed the door after him and his companion. - -I sat rooted to my seat, failing to understand what I had seen. Was this -in some way the meaning behind the phrase, “a monkey on his back”? I -knew that whatever was going on here could scarcely be an idle -zoological experiment, yet somehow I felt an impenetrable wall between -my innocence and the full possibilities of human depravity. - -I looked once more at the people in the tavern, and all at once it was -with different eyes. I no longer saw them as “dregs” and “strays.” I saw -something terrible, humiliating, too outrageous to form into words. - -What is happening? Who are these people? Are they, indeed, people? But -am I? Have I an identity? - -My smugness melted and the distaste I had felt for what I saw now -angered me. I had come into this place small, mean, and superior, a cad -and a fop, the epitome of what I had long viewed with scorn in others. - -I had a better notion of what Nelson was seeing and the nature of his -protest. He had shown me a world where people lived without choice or -destination. - -I lived for days with this nightmare, asking myself why I should feel -guilt for those who no longer feel responsible for themselves. Then it -occurred to me that the question was never one of guilt, but only of -love. The agony exists regardless of the setting. The lack of love is -not alone on Clark Street. - - -To be successful, an autographing cocktail party must be planned with -consummate skill and attention to detail. You must leave nothing to -chance. You may not pretend that everything will work out satisfactorily -at the last minute. It will not. And because I respected writers so -much, I tried to guard them against the ultimate humiliation of sitting -at a table before a pile of their own books, with no buyers. - -I adopted the following procedure: First, get from the author his own -list of names—people he would like personally to invite to his party. -Phone each of them, or at least write a post card asking if they are -interested in receiving a signed copy of the book. Next, send out the -invitation to all your charge accounts, then check the mailing list for -people you think will be interested in the book. Avoid freeloaders. -Invite the press and the literary critics and try to write a short human -interest story for the columnists. In short, build up as big an advance -as possible. - -Furthermore, don’t throw a skimpy party. People carry away impressions, -and the only impression you can afford is a bountiful one. It is said -that all the world loves a lover, but one thing you can be sure of is -that they love a winner. So avoid failure by planning against it, and -then pray. Pray that it won’t rain or turn freezing cold, that the pipes -won’t break or the electricity be turned off. Pray that you may fulfill -your multiple responsibilities; to the author, the publisher, and your -own hopes for continuing operation. - -It seemed natural that one of our greatest cocktail parties should be -given for Nelson Algren upon publication of _The Man with the Golden -Arm_. Yet behind the scenes things went very oddly, and for a time it -was hard to tell whether either the author or the publisher wanted the -party—or the large downtown department store, either, which entered the -picture as a prospect for the event. - -Anyway, it took place at the Seven Stairs. Ken McCormick, -Editor-in-Chief of Doubleday, Nelson’s publisher, flew into Chicago. I -can see him still, loaded with books in both arms, carrying them from -one room to another. - -There was high excitement—newspaper photographers and an unbelievable -crush of people. It all began to tell on Nelson’s nerves and mine. It -seemed to me he was writing too long in each book, and at times he would -change his mind in the middle of an inscription and ask for another copy -(to Nelson such revision was a literary exercise, to me a spoiled copy -was a financial loss). The line of guests seemed endless and I began to -develop an active dislike for people, for money, for the whole business. -Besides, it was getting awfully hot. Nelson and Ken and I removed our -coats. Nelson even gave up writing long paragraphs in each book. I tried -keeping a cool drink at his side at all times. It seemed to help. - -It was a great but strange party. Nelson was a success, and in a way I -was, too. And this altered things enormously. It had never occurred to -me how people attach themselves to the rescue phantasy, how easily -failure inspires love, how differently even the semblance of success -affects relationships. All at once, people who had only wanted to help -me became hypersensitive and found me snubbing them. And I was feeling a -new sensitivity also: “You can’t destroy me in the process of buying -from me.” It was the beginning of a new struggle. - -The last guest finally left. Ken McCormick was a very happy publisher. I -swept all interior confusions aside and counted up the books. We had -sold one thousand copies of _The Man with the Golden Arm_ in a single -night! It was almost too much for Ken—he had to see it to believe it. -And we were all dead tired. Just as I was about to turn the last light -switch before we went out the door, I remembered and asked Nelson to -autograph a book for me. As he bent down to write, I could see Bob -Kohrman and myself sitting on the sand dunes reading the galleys of the -book. I remembered conversations with Nelson and Jack Conroy in regard -to the title, and Jack’s needling of Nelson when the advances were -running out, saying, “Any day now you’ll be begging to come to work on -the encyclopedia” (the constant drudgery to which Jack has given most of -his working hours for two decades.) - -Nelson, crouching over the book, wrote: “For Stuart and Jennie. The best -in the West (as well as the South, North and East). Because he’s the boy -with the golden wife—and she’s the girl with the golden guy.” - -For there was indeed now a Jennie, a golden girl with whose short life -mine was now linked in a more responsible relationship than I had ever -imagined I would assume—a decisive part in the unimaginable future -building before me. - - -We were all on our way now, but Jack Conroy was the last to leave. He -had waited until the very end to say, “Papa, it was a fine party. I’m -proud of you and your efforts for Nelson.” They were all gone now, the -columnists, the celebrities, the crowd that stretched in a file of twos -almost to the corner drug store. Only Jack Conroy, a huge and gentle man -with his “Hello, Papa,” the extended hand, and the tiny stare in the -blue, grey-flecked eyes, always waiting, wondering how you are going to -accept his greeting. - -This is the wild, humorous, tender man who gave Tennessee Williams his -first important break, who first published Richard Wright, who wrote a -bestseller thirty years ago that is highly regarded by the few who -remember it, and who is rated as the second most popular American author -in all of Russia, one below Melville and one above Poe.[1] His only -material reward: a purported fortune in rubles which he has no intention -of ever collecting. - -When Jack edited _Midland Humor_, a discerning anthology published in -1947, he was late to his own party at the Seven Stairs. When he arrived, -I was shaken, as I always am, by his look of, “Will I be scolded? Will I -be forgiven?” - -He can be the most jocular of men, and the most understanding. One -afternoon over coffee at the Seven Stairs he reported at hilarious -lengths on the drinking prowess of his friend, Burl Ives, who was then -doubling between a cabaret engagement at the Blackstone Hotel and the -vaudeville show at the Chicago Theater. I was in the depth of my -psychiatric period and suggested that help might be in order. - -“He doesn’t seem unhappy about it,” said Jack, innocently. - -Today Conroy, one of the most talented men in American letters, quietly -stands and looks. When he talks, he stares directly at you, or turns his -head entirely away and speaks to empty space. - -I think he is the most honest man I have ever met: in his intent, in his -appraisal of others and their writing, and in his own bereavement. As -the gait grows slower, the shyness becomes more pronounced and the gaze -extends away farther and farther. - -He has been called the Samuel Johnson of the Chicago South Side. The -designation fits in many ways—the large physical build, the forceful -expression and comprehensive knowledge, the long toil in the compilation -of reference works—and in some ways not at all. He has been many things, -at times even a wandering player, and his physiognomy suggests a -somewhat more cerebral William Bendix. - -He can provide the most wonderful encouragement to others. But his own -burden is lack of time—lack of time for all his obligations, for all he -should do. Publisher after publisher offers him handsome advances, and -he declines them. He knows he would not fulfill the obligation. - -We were at lunch not long ago. “I’m going down to Mexico on my -vacation,” he said. “I’m going to visit Motley.” - -I had known the tragic eyes of Willard Motley, whose _Knock on Any Door_ -did not fill our friend, Algren, with any particular enthusiasm. - -“You know, that Nelson is mean,” Jack said. “He wrote some nasty things -about me in the _Reporter_. Did you see that?” - -“No, I didn’t.” - -“Well, he did. We used to see a lot of each other.” - -We walked back to the office building where Jack does his faithful, -painstaking hack work. - -“I’ll drop you a line from Mexico,” he said. “I’ll tell Motley that -you’re writing a book. Take care of yourself. I’ll see you when I get -back.” - -The grey-blue eyes were suddenly swollen with sadness, and the voice -stretched in a heavier drawl. I wished with all my heart that things -would work out well for Jack Conroy. - - -The relationship between genius and disaster is too deep for me to -comprehend. I do know that genius is never made; it is only discovered. -There has to be a front runner. The notion that genius will out, -regardless of circumstances, is simply to ignore the nature of genius, -which must center upon itself in order to function. I sometimes think -that the energy expended in creating a really imaginative work drains -the humanity out of the artist. If his personal life suffers as a -consequence, his business acumen is even more incidental. - -_The Man with the Golden Arm_ was Algren’s great commercial success, and -the harvest was reaped by others. The story is told, or at any rate that -part which has any bearing on this discourse, in a classic letter from -Nelson to Otto Preminger, producer of the movie which bore the title, if -not the imprint, of the novel: - - Hotel Vermillion - 6162 West Hollywood Blvd. - Los Angeles, California - February 16, 1955 - - Mr. Otto Preminger - Columbia Studios - 1438 Gower Street - Los Angeles, California - - Dear Mr. Preminger: - - I am advised by your office that arrangements are now under way - to award me the sum of two hundred and three dollars and - seventy-eight cents, spent by myself to proceed, upon your - invitation, to the city of Los Angeles. I find this gesture most - generous, but am compelled to inform you that this money was - spent to no purpose to which you are member. Thank you all the - same. - - I am further instructed that arrangements are also under way to - compensate me, at the rate of thirty-five dollars per diem, for - listening to the expression of certain thoughts, after a manner - of speaking, by yourself. These occurred between January 27th - and 31st inclusively. But since these were all, like the novel - about which you wove them, the property of other persons living - or dead, I cannot in conscience honor them by acceptance of such - compensation. Again I am grateful. And again I am instructed - that a check for the sum of seven hundred and fifty dollars, in - addition to the above items, is due me from yourself. I assume - this may well be an effort to repay me for some twelve pages of - double-spaced typing I achieved in an effort to discover what in - God’s name you were talking about. Since these pages served only - to confuse you further, no moneys are rightfully due me. Yet - your thoughtfulness does not cease to move me. - - Should this concern for me derive from a simple and heartfelt - gratitude for a diversion afforded you for a full week by “an - interesting person,” as you so happily put it when the moment - came for parting, I do not feel you are so much indebted. - Although I did not find in you an interesting person, I did - discover one of arrogance approaching the uncanny. Upon the - basis of mutual amusement, therefore, I am the debtor. And since - you are decidedly more uncanny than I am interesting, I must at - a rough estimate, owe you close to forty dollars. - - And forward this sum confident of your satisfaction in alms from - any quarter, however small, and remain - - your obedient servant - Nelson Algren - - “He jests at scars who never felt a wound.” - - - - - 5 - The Day My Accountant Cried - - -I dislike being interrupted when I am interesting someone in a book. One -late afternoon while I was engaged in making a sale, my accountant -tiptoed over and stood close to me. I moved away, but he came close -again. I frowned; generally that was enough to frighten him. But not -this time. - -“I must speak with you,” he said. “It’s very important.” - -“Well, what is it?” I said. - -His thin shoulders sagged and when he finally spoke, his voice -contributed to the general impression of a small, furry animal in a -trap. “You are bankrupt,” he squeaked. - -My accountant was a limp rag of a man with a lined, ashen face and a -bald head spotted with a few patches of nondescript hair. The color of -his eyes was an odd mixture, neither grey nor brown, and he never met -your gaze, but looked down at your feet or to one side. He wore a grey -suit with a vest that had specially made pockets to contain his -pharmaceutical supplies, including not only pill boxes and bottles, but -his own spoon and a collapsible cup. - -Although he was very neat, he bit his fingernails to the quick. Still, I -found his hands fascinating when he added up columns of figures. His -figure 8’s and his 7’s had a special quality about them, a precision -bordering upon elegance. - -He came into the store once a month, went over my bookkeeping, prepared -the necessary forms for my signature, and left. Sometimes he would -linger for just a few minutes looking at titles on the bookshelves. Then -he would turn, shrug his shoulders, and depart. - -When he looked up and informed me tragically, “You are bankrupt,” the -words were utterly meaningless to me. “Wait until I finish,” I said, -waving him aside, “then we’ll talk.” His distress was pitiful, yet I -couldn’t help laughing. - -Talk we did. He showed me the stack of unpaid statements, then my bank -balance, then the cost of my inventory. There was no doubt about it: I -was bankrupt. Those pretty 8’s and magnetic 7’s proved it. The ledger -sheets with the long red and blue lines and the numbers so small and so -beautifully shaped within the spaces spoke the awful truth. But somehow -this truth meant nothing to me, except strangely to remind me of a story -told by my father about a man who lost a leg but ran on as though he -still possessed two. - -I looked at my accountant in silence. He sat next to me, his squeaky -voice now still, his red-rimmed eyes peering at me and at the evidence -lying before us on the desk, along with a neat pile of Kleenex sheets, a -spoon, and a bottle of pink medicine. My accountant’s adam’s apple began -moving silently in his throat and as I observed this, I placed my man as -a literary character with whom I was well familiar, the awful little man -in _The Magic Mountain_ who mashed all his food together, bent his head -over it, and shoveled and pushed the mess into his mouth. Again I began -to laugh helplessly, and my accountant kept saying, “Not funny, not -funny, remember—you are bankrupt.” - -“What do you suggest?” I finally asked. - -“There is not much _to_ suggest,” he said. “The books show bankruptcy. -File for bankruptcy and call it a day.” - -“Just like that?” I said. - -“The figures are correct,” he said. “To me this means you must go out of -business.” - -“But what does it mean to me? I love this business and want to remain in -it. I’ve spent three years building it and look at the progress I’ve -made!” - -“It can’t be helped,” he said. “Business is business. Your publishers -are not sentimental. When they send you books, they want to be paid.” - -Of course I intended to pay, I assured him. But I couldn’t pay everyone -all at once. And if I was serving as an agent for their wares, couldn’t -some of them wait? Or couldn’t I go to the bank for another loan? - -“Impossible,” he said. “Furthermore, no one cares about your good work -or your bad work. Your problem is that you haven’t the money to meet -your bills.” - -Strangely enough—immorally perhaps—it had never occurred to me that this -was my problem. Finally I said, “As a favor to me, could you pretend -that you hadn’t come here this evening? Could you forget this -conversation? As I see it, nothing has changed whatsoever. So far, the -only person threatening me with bankruptcy is yourself. It seems to me -that if you will just stop talking about it, I am no longer bankrupt.” - -My accountant poured himself a cupful of pink medicine, smacked his -lips, and burst into tears. He assured me that I was partially -responsible for his ulcerated stomach. And he told me of his fate ... -the three times he had tried to pass the C.P.A. examinations ... the -scorn and derision to which he was subjected by fools like me ... the -plight of his wife and his children ... and his simple allegiance to the -truth of numbers. - -I began to feel terribly guilty. What had I done to him by not breaking -beneath the impact of his shocking pronouncement? “Please don’t cry,” I -said. “Nothing is really changed, actually. I just don’t believe in -figures. I don’t believe in bankruptcy. I still believe in people, in -myself, in my work. Sometimes I wake up in the morning feeling joyous -and sometimes I go to bed feeling wretched, but that’s life. However, it -is entirely my fault for making you cry. I meant to take you seriously, -but I have a complete contempt for figures.” - -I brought him some water in his own antiseptic cup and told him the -story of the Little Prince and the Fox and how the Fox made the Prince -repeat: “Remember always—what is essential is invisible to the eye. It -is the time you have wasted on your rose that makes her so important. -Love means care and labor and respect. You are responsible for what you -love.” - -I observed a different accountant sitting before me. In the course of my -resistance to the destruction of my dream, I had apparently turned upon -him in a way that was completely novel, neither scorning him nor using -him, but speaking to him as a member of the human race. - -“I’ve never done this before,” he admitted, wiping his eyes. “But your -attitude in the face of certain failure just broke me up. And here I am -... owning two houses, a piece of a hotel, and some stocks and bonds ... -more money than you’ll probably ever see. Yet I realize how very little -I have ... on the other side of the ledger.” - -I was astounded that he was not angry, found a copy of _The Little -Prince_ to give him, and as he left called, “You’ve forgotten your spoon -and the medicine.” He hesitated a moment, but did not turn back. - -My accountant never again told me I was bankrupt. Several months passed -before I next saw him, but since I continued to ignore the “figure” side -of the business, his absence did not disturb me. Then one bright and -lovely morning he came in wearing a fresh, newly pressed suit and ... no -vest! - -“How marvelous!” I said. - -“No vest, ever again,” he assured me. - -“What happened?” I asked. - -“Well, you remember when I left? I still didn’t believe you, but I read -_The Little Prince_ that evening. I used to think that facts and the -gathering of facts were the only basis for living. But I realize now it -is a much harder job. It is easier to be hypochondriac ... or a slave to -the logic of the marketplace ... or anything but one’s self.” - -Does experience teach? Is it possible that a human being may be altered -or set free through the written word? Are books important? Is it -important to be a bookseller? Even though you are going broke? I had -been turning like a worm in an apple for so long that it seemed a little -more turning could scarcely hurt me. - - -One night I was awakened by the insistent ringing of the telephone. - -“Can you come down to the restaurant at once, son?” It was Ric -Riccardo’s voice. - -In less than an hour, I was seated in a booth with Ric, the late Henry -Beaudeaux, then art critic for the _Chicago Daily News_, and Michael -Seller, a psychoanalyst, with whose professional world I had just begun -an acquaintance through interesting circumstances which I shall soon -describe. - -After I had sipped my coffee, Ric smiled thinly and said, “Mike, tell -him.” - -“How would you like to go into the publishing business?” Mike said. - -Then Ric took over. Chicago needed a publishing house, he argued. He was -going to put up the money and establish the organization. But we would -publish only Chicago talent regardless of their métier ... art, poetry, -novels, whatever. He continued for perhaps an hour in this vein, -dwelling upon the resources of talent which existed in the Chicago area -and the absurdity of depending on New York to “discover” it. Finally, I -wanted to know where I fitted in. - -“I supply the money,” Ric said. “You set up the office, start the -company going, get the writers. Tomorrow we’ll meet with my lawyer.” - -He didn’t ask whether I liked the idea. He knew I was crazy about it and -would work day and night to see it through. - -“Have you a name for the firm?” I said. - -“We’ll call it the BrentR Press,” Ric said solemnly. And with -enthusiastic handclasps over this peculiarly ranch house designation, we -parted. - - -Our first book was to be an art book titled, _Eleven Plus Four_, -principally to indicate the number of drawings to be found in the book. -The drawings by John Foote were considerably more astounding than the -title, and Sydney J. Harris, columnist for the _Chicago Daily News_, -wrote as literate and perceptive an introduction as one is likely to -encounter. - -Ric and I worked like a pair of furies on the project. My association -with the enterprise had a promotional value that helped business at the -store and I felt certain that the way ahead lay open and that hard work -was all that was required. - -When Ric gave me a check for $5,000.00 and said, “Go to a bank and open -an account,” I headed straight out to find the vice president of the -bank where I had but a few years earlier been turned down for a loan. He -was gone, but in his place I found a banker who was also a man. - -Following this successful encounter, I rushed back to show Ric the -receipted deposit slip. He laughed and took me up to his studio. He -pointed to an army footlocker and said, “Open it.” - -I did, and the sight of its contents overwhelmed me. It was full of -money—currency of every denomination. - -“When you need money, come upstairs and help yourself,” he said. “Only -tell me afterwards.” - -I wondered what my accountant would think. Even after his reformation, -this kind of profligacy must have been beyond his comprehension. - - -At first nobody talked about it. Ric had become ill and he could not be -seen. When there were urgent decisions to make, I was told, “Make them -yourself.” But I was not sure of myself, I explained. The answer was the -same. Ric was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. - -Two months passed before I was permitted to go to the hospital to see -him. He lay curled up in bed like a child, incredibly thin, the -close-cropped hair completely grey, the skin waxen. I sat beside him for -a long time before he unwound his body and looked at me. - -“Go ahead and work, son,” he said. “You can do everything. When I get -better we’ll talk about the book. If you need anything, go see Charley. -I’ll call you when I can.” - -I left feeling certain that I would never see Ric alive. I called -Michael Seller and asked him to level with me. “It was his heart,” Mike -said. In his judgment, it was just a question of time. - -I hung up feeling that my world was coming to an end. If Ric was -wounded, I was, too. If his survival was in doubt, I questioned my own. -Every pattern I touched, no matter how vital, seemed to resolve itself -into my own lostness. - -But we were all wrong, doctors and friends alike. Ric came back strong. -To be sure, the bags about the eyes were more pronounced, the skin hung -a bit loosely about the face and neck. But one had only to look into the -eyes to see that the fire was still there. Ric was all right, loving -life, loving people, giving joy to all who came into his presence. - -There was a new mark upon him, however, of increased gentleness. He -spoke gently, moved gently, dressed gently, even ate gently. When we -played chess, it was no longer with the same intensity. He would even -interrupt the game to talk about the nature of God. He was becoming -non-attached. - -Finally the book came off the press. It was a beautiful job of -production, and everyone whose name was known in Chicago seemed to have -come to the autographing party in the spacious rooms above the -restaurant. Ric sat at a table surveying the scene, and couldn’t have -cared less. He was gracious to everyone. He nodded his approval at all -the checks I had received for advance orders. He seemed pleased with my -enthusiasm for success. But something had gone out of him—at least so -far as ardor for parties and promotion was concerned. - -Ric died one week later, and with him many dreams, the BrentR Press -among them. - - - - - 6 - The Man with the Golden Couch - - -I am a great believer in the theory of “attractiveness.” This theory is -a way of describing a commonly experienced relationship between external -events and what you feel in your heart. Something inside tells you that -you are “ready,” and then out of the world of events happenings begin to -occur which seem exclusively yours. The conditions were there all the -time, but your heart wasn’t ready to accept them—hence the -“attractiveness” in the world did not reveal itself. But when your heart -is ready, whatever it is ready for will be fulfilled. - -Perhaps the first step in this fulfillment was my marriage to Jennie, a -girl with a strong, fine face and long brow, a generous soul, and a -brilliant talent. In spite of the growing fame of the Seven Stairs, we -faced a hard struggle for existence. New people were coming to buy -books, mink coats mingling with hand-me-downs, but I made only grudging -concessions to what many of them wished to buy. I refused to carry -how-to-do-it books, occult books, books written and published by -charlatans, books pandering to junk-eaters. I wouldn’t even “special -order” junk. - -While I was limiting my practice to the least profitable aspects of the -book business, Jennie’s personal income as a staff pianist at a -television station was cut off completely when the management eliminated -most of the musicians from the payroll. So she came to help at the Seven -Stairs. - -Late one evening when I was alone in the store, an unlikely customer -came in, walking with a slightly swaying motion and conveying a general -attitude of, “You can’t help me. I’m on an inspection tour. Stay away.” -An effort to engage him in conversation met with stiff resistance, so I -retreated unhappily behind my desk. Finally my man came over to the desk -with a small volume of Rilke’s poetry and asked whether I carried charge -accounts. When he saw me hesitate, he dipped into his pocket and paid in -cash, stripping the single dollar bills from a sizeable bank roll, a -demonstration which added further to my resentment of Ira Blitzsten. - -With the exception of Ben Kartman, no one played a more decisive part in -shaping the future of my business than Ira. In spite of the initial -impression he made on me, and my obvious reaction, he continued to come -into the store, and we became friends. He was an amazing reader with an -excellent library of books and recordings, and he had an uncle, he told -me, who was a lover of opera and might be persuaded to buy books and -records from me. - -One morning I received a phone call from the uncle, Dr. Lionel -Blitzsten, who asked if I had a recording of the Verdi Requiem with -Pinza. It was a rich, full, commanding voice, and I was glad to be able -to reply that I did. He suggested that I bring it over immediately. - -Fortunately, he lived not far from the shop, but in a world of opulence -such as I had never encountered. On arrival, I was sent by the maid to -wait upstairs in the master bedroom. The room was fitted out like an -18th century drawing room. One wall was entirely covered with books. -Later I discovered that because of illness, he did most of his -entertaining here. I waited nervously, and noticing money lying on top -of the dresser, retreated across the thick Turkish rug to the threshold -and stayed there. - -He came up the stairs quickly—a man in a hurry, I thought. But I was -unprepared for his appearance, a kind of giant panda, very short and -bald, with perhaps a few grey hairs straying about the temples, and -wearing awesomely thick glasses (he had been going blind for years). His -breathing was difficult (his lungs had a way of constantly filling up -from his exertions) and I was later informed that his heart, too, was -giving out. Platoons of doctors had struggled to keep him alive over the -years. - -What was really arresting (and somewhat terrifying) about this fat, -puffing little man was the face. Above the glasses, the skull seemed all -forehead; beneath, the clean-shaven skin was baby pink and the mouth -shaped like a rosebud and just as red. That was it, the mouth ... and -when he spoke, the voice was musical, no longer deep, but rather high in -pitch. - -Our initial transaction was completed in a moment. The Doctor looked at -the records, asked the price, made his way to the dresser, gave me two -ten dollar bills, thanked me, and vanished as quickly as he had -appeared. I walked down the stairs and left quietly, but my heart was -pounding. - -It was several weeks before Dr. Blitzsten called again, very late in the -evening. I recognized the sing-song quality characteristic of his speech -as he asked for several books. I had all of them except the one he -particularly wanted ... he said he needed it to refresh himself with a -certain passage. - -“Well, never mind,” he said, “I’ll get the book elsewhere tomorrow. -Would you mind awfully delivering the others tonight?” - -Again the maid let me in and sent me to the bedroom. I waited in the -doorway until the Doctor motioned me in and asked me to deposit the -books on a small table beside the bed. He was sitting up in bed -supported by a backrest, a blinking Buddha in white, blue-trimmed -pajamas and covered with a thin, fine blanket. As I started to introduce -myself, he waved his hand and began to talk. - -So far as I knew, I had never before met a psychoanalyst, and I had the -feeling that my every word and move would be subject to his scrutiny and -probably found wanting. As I answered his questions carefully, politely, -haltingly, I became increasingly jumpy and nervous. My words wouldn’t -come together as they usually did. I found myself making the most -ridiculous errors, catching myself up only to discover that I was -blushing. I was in the wrong place and I wanted to go home. - -Somehow he was able eventually to put me at ease and I merely sat and -listened. Even when he voiced opinions on Shakespeare which I felt -certain were dead wrong, I said nothing. What was important was the -stream of his language which was rapid, endless, scintillating, -inexhaustibly alive. His charm and wit, his knowledge of literature, and -his Voltairian cynicism thrilled me, while his pin-point knowledge of -Hebrew and Yiddish left me helpless. - -Finally I was dismissed. He thanked me again for having gone out of my -way to deliver the books and told me to “special order” the particular -volume he needed (a technical work of which I had never heard). He had -decided to wait for it. - -The following morning, I opened an account for Dr. Blitzsten, and I -called Ira to thank him for this introduction to his remarkable uncle. I -felt that something rather peculiar was happening, but I had no idea -that it was to open up an entirely new phase in my business and in my -personal experience. - -The departure which was to make the difference between my financial -success or failure in the book business was inaugurated upon my third -visit to Dr. Blitzsten’s residence. This time I was received in the -downstairs study, where the Doctor sat behind a tremendous, brilliantly -polished desk. He offered me a drink, which I declined, for I was still -very shy in his presence. Then he launched quickly into the plan he had -formulated. - -“I understand,” he said, “that you have recently married. I understand -that you have a struggling business. I should like to offer a -suggestion. Psychoanalysts have to get most of their books directly from -the publishers or from dealers in England. Why don’t you put in a good -stock of such books? There will be immediate demand when I tell my -colleagues of it. And I will do one more thing, also. I’ll help you buy -the right titles. - -“Take these five books and compile the bibliographies from them. Then -come and see me Sunday afternoon and I’ll help you make your selection.” - -I accepted a drink now, amazed by this sudden, generous offer and the -possibilities it opened to me. All I could do was to sit and look, with -a heart too flooded with emotion for speech. I found words, finally, -which must have been the proper words, for he smiled gently as he saw me -to the door. - -“Sunday afternoon, then. Goodnight,” he called. - -On Sunday morning the phone rang. It was Dr. Blitzsten telling me that I -should bring Jennie too. On arrival, we were escorted into the living -room. Again I felt in the presence of a world of unbelievable grace and -charm. The long, elegantly proportioned room had a vaulted ceiling and -walls covered with early Chinese paintings. At the far corner stood two -ebony Steinways, back to back. Dr. Blitzsten was seated near one of the -pianos, sipping a glass of wine. Ira was also there, along with Dr. -Harvey Lewis, who soon would become a Seven Stairs “regular.” After the -introductions, Dr. Blitzsten asked Jennie to play for us. - -I felt terribly responsible. She had scarcely touched a piano for months -and I knew her extreme sensitivity as a performing artist. But she went -to the piano without a word of apology and began playing Scarlatti, then -an impassioned Shostakovich prelude, and finally “The Girl with the -Flaxen Hair.” There was no doubt that she was accepted, and I along with -her. - -I went home with my book lists and the following morning was busy -writing letters, opening accounts, and beginning the formation of one of -the finest libraries of psychiatric books ever gathered in a single -bookstore. - -With Lionel Blitzsten’s help, I prepared the first psychiatric book -catalogue to come out of Chicago and mailed it to every psychiatrist in -the United States, to every university library and institute for -psychoanalysis, and to selected prospects in Canada, Brazil, Germany, -even Africa. Because of Dr. Blitzsten’s extraordinary editing, the -catalogue featured books not readily obtained in America. I became an -active importer of English titles, especially from the Hogarth Press, -which had an outstanding listing of psychoanalytic books. - -A few months later, I added a supplement to the original catalogue, -including books on psychology, philosophy, anthropology, art and -literature. I had quickly discovered that psychoanalysts were deeply -interested in the impact of all areas of thought upon man’s inner -experience and his spiritual life. Soon ninety percent of my business -was coming from my new specialty, which continued to thrive in spite of -growing competition from New York involving price-cutting which the -publishers appeared powerless to prevent. The local psychoanalysts were -my best accounts, and many of them, including Bob Kohrman, Harvey Lewis, -Fred Robbins, Richard Renneker, Aaron Hilkevitch, Jack Sparer, Joel -Handler, Stan Gamm, Ernest Rappaport and Robert Gronner, along with -Katie Dobson, the obstetrician, and Harold Laufman, the surgeon, became -torch bearers for the Seven Stairs and lasting friends. - -Even less expected than this boom in my business was the social -consequence of my deepening relationship with Lionel Blitzsten. The last -thing I would ever have conceived, the last for which I would have -hoped, as a consequence of my career as a personal bookseller, was an -induction into the Proustian world of the coterie. - -The machinery of a coterie is simple; the reasons behind its operation -and its subtle influence on the lives of those drawn into its orbit are -complex almost beyond endurance. Essentially, the coterie consists of a -number of people who hold similar views on unimportant things. Everyone -admitted must observe a cardinal prohibition: to say nothing fundamental -about anything. All must follow the leader, employ a common stock of -expressions, adopt the same mannerisms, profess the same prejudices, -affect the same bearing, and recognize a common bond of impenetrable -superficiality. - -It was all to be seen from the first, although I would not permit my -heart to acknowledge it. We were there for the entertainment of a sick, -lonely, gifted man. Sitting up in his huge bed, Lionel held forth on -every subject imaginable that related to human creativity. He talked -brilliantly, fluidly, endlessly, while his auditors listened, sipped tea -or coffee or a liqueur, bit into a cracker or sandwich, laughed or -smiled when signaled to do so, or scowled when necessary. - -The strange thing was that so many were envious and wanted desperately -to belong. But the number had to be limited. Lionel did the choosing and -he did the eliminating (eventually, in fact, he discarded all but one!) -He used people as a machine uses oil. When a person ceased to give what -he needed or showed signs of drying up, the search began for his -replacement. For Lionel required constant stimulation to avoid falling -into melancholy. The dinner parties and soirees to which he was addicted -were at once indispensable and boring to him, tonic and yet destructive. -The web of his character and his professional and social commitments was -so complex that it became virtually impossible for him to find a -situation of free and natural rapport or one with which he could deal in -any way except capriciously. Hence his total need for the “faithful.” -Hence, too, if one of the “faithful” became valueless, out he went. Then -began the cries and recriminations and the storm of hysteria reigned -supreme in the tea cup. - -One could not remain a passive spectator in this little world. If you -can imagine a great hall with many rooms occupied by solitary persons -somehow bound to one another by invisible, inextricable longings, with -myself dashing, hopping, skipping, running from one room to another, you -may have a sense of the nightmare my life was becoming—a fantasy in -which some incomprehensible crisis was always arising or in which my -business or personal life might be interrupted at any hour of the day or -night by a call from Lionel and the despotism of his utter and absolute -need. - -In my heart, I knew that my dream of being the Shelley of the book -business was rapidly disappearing. The act of dressing for an evening of -looking at the same well-cared-for, well-groomed, vacuous people, eating -the same tired hors d’oeuvres, hearing the same gossip, filled me with -almost uncontrollable rage. Yet I was still caught up in the excitement -of being part of this new-found pretentious world of middle-class -wealth. - -The first time I was really shaken was at the Christmas party. Along -with others, I had helped trim the gigantic tree while Lionel sat and -amused us with tales and gossip. The decorating job was truly a work of -art and we were all quite pleased with ourselves when we left, the -members of the inner circle lingering for a few minutes after the others -were gone before offering their thanks and goodnights. We were saying -our goodbyes, when Lionel turned suddenly and looked at the pillows on -his huge couch. - -“They haven’t been fluffed up!” he said, in a voice of command. - -Immediately several young analysts left their wives in the hall, dropped -their coats, and rushed back to “fluff.” - -The whole action was so unexpected and infantile that the blood rushed -to my head and for a moment I was dizzy and unable to focus. And I had -let myself in for this sort of thing! Jennie and I left without saying -goodnight. - -“There is a time when one goes toward Lionel and another time when one -goes away from him,” an analyst who had once been part of the inner -circle remarked. This indeed seemed to be the case, but my inner -conflict remained unresolved. I was ashamed of living in a midnight of -fear. At the same time I felt privileged to know this gifted and, so -often, generous man, who understood the human soul as few others have. I -respected and loved him and wanted to befriend him in every way that was -not a violation of my own being. - -As a group, I found analysts the most sensitive and intelligent to be -found in the professions. But there were those I could not tolerate, no -matter how much they spent at the shop; the shock artists who fed off -the agony and terror of the bewildered, and the culturally illiterate -who viewed anything dealing with the creative as their province. The -atmosphere would begin to sizzle at the Seven Stairs the moment any of -the latter started analyzing Mann, Gide, Dostoevsky, Ibsen, Kafka, -Homer, anybody and everybody. I had read Freud’s essay on Leonardo Da -Vinci and Ernest Jones’ on Hamlet with great interest and decided that -the whole approach was one of intellectual gibberish, regardless of the -serious intent of these great men. But the young and unread analysts -were not even serious. When you cross-examined them, you found they had -never read the plays or books in question: they were merely quoting an -authority and taking his word for it. Of course, it is a nasty thing to -expose anyone and it is sacrilegious to do it to an analyst. The change -in my relations with some of the psychoanalysts became increasingly less -subtle. - -To offset some of the business losses attendant on this turn of affairs, -I hit on the idea of giving a series of lectures in the store after -closing hours. I offered a course of five lectures on great men of -literature at a subscription price of ten dollars and was surprised to -find I was talking to standing room only. After a month’s respite, I -tried it again with similar success. Emmet Dedmon, then literary editor -of the _Chicago Sun-Times_ heard one of the sessions and was responsible -for recommending me as a replacement for the eminent Rabbi Solomon -Goldman, when he was taken sick before a lecture engagement. The success -of that one lecture was such that I was booked for thirteen more. It -seemed as though all was not lost. - -“It’s a big world,” I assured myself, sitting alone in the shop before -the fire. “The sun does not rise and set with a handful of analysts.” It -was a cool October night. Business that day had been particularly good. -My debts were not pressing. I took heart. - -In apparent response to this cheerful frame of mind, a smartly dressed -customer entered the shop, a man of medium build with blond hair parted -in the middle and a pair of the bluest eyes I had ever seen. - -“I am looking for an out-of-print recording, the Variations on a Nursery -Theme by Dohnanyi,” he said. “Perhaps you may have it?” The accent was -unmistakably British. - -It was obviously my day—I did have it! “I have something else, also -out-of-print, that might interest you,” I said. “It’s the Dohnanyi Trio, -played by Heifetz, Primrose, and Feurmann.” - -“Oh, that,” he said. “I know that one. I played it.” - -I hesitated, sensing some kind of ambiguity. - -“I’m Primrose,” he said. - -We chatted while I wrapped the records. He was charmed by the shop—it -had a really English flavor, he said. Before I knew it, I was telling -him the whole story of the Seven Stairs. - -“Until what time do you stay open?” he asked. “It’s quite late.” - -“I’m closing right now,” I said. - -“If you have time, let’s have a drink,” he suggested. “I should like to -hear more.” - -On a sudden inspiration, I asked first to make a phone call. While my -customer browsed among the books, I spoke with Lionel and asked if he -would like me to bring William Primrose over. He was ecstatic. At first -note, his voice had sounded forlorn, so empty of life that I guessed him -to be terribly sick. But mention of Primrose acted like a shot in the -arm. - -“Hurry!” he cried. - -I told Mr. Primrose that my friend had a wonderful bar and a devotion to -great music. But he had already heard of Dr. Blitzsten. “Isn’t that the -analyst?” he said. “My friends in the Budapest Quartet often used his -home for rehearsal.” - -So off we went. Lionel was at his best—charming, informative, genuinely -interested in the small talk carried on by Mr. Primrose. I was delighted -really to have pleased him. When I left Primrose at his hotel that -night, the world seemed good again. - -Yet on the way home, I began to have hot and cold flashes. Why had I -called Lionel and offered to bring Primrose? Why? - - -A pleasant period followed, warmed by ripening friendships. Jennie and I -attended the Primrose concert and dined with the great violist -afterward. In years to come, I was to see him frequently and even -present him in a memorable concert in my own shop. - -While at Orchestra Hall to hear Primrose, we had also encountered Dr. -Harold Laufman and his wife, Marilyn, and through some instant rapport -agreed to see each other very soon. The result was an enduring -friendship, as well as one of the most pleasant parties ever held at the -Seven Stairs, a showing of Hal’s pictures which he had painted in North -Africa during the war. They were brilliant, highly individualistic -works.... “My impressions of disease,” he said. - -The party was a delight, particularly because there was no question of -selling anything—the artist could not possibly have been persuaded to -part with any of his pictures. There was nothing to do but pass out the -drinks and enjoy the company, which included a lovely woman with reddish -gold hair out of a Titian portrait who wanted every book and record in -the shop—and who was later to deliver our first son. She was Dr. -Catherine Dobson, an obstetrician, an analysand of Dr. Blitzsten, and a -great and good friend. - - -The day after our son was born, I received a call from Lionel. “What are -you going to name the baby?” he asked. - -“We’ve decided on David,” I said. - -“David?” he said. “That’s too plain. Why not call him Travis? I just -love the name Travis.” - -I admitted that Travis was fine, but perhaps a bit fancy. “After all,” I -said, “Jennie wants to call the boy David. What’s the difference?” - -“A great deal of difference ... for the boy’s future,” he said. “I love -Travis. Suggest it to Jennie.” - -I had to admit to Jennie that I was afraid to take a stand. But was it -too much ... to give just a little and to keep things working for us? - -“Why are you letting this man ruin our lives?” she asked. - -When I couldn’t answer she relented. David was named Travis David. - -In the days following, I was afflicted with a recurrent rash and -sometimes by mysterious feelings of terror. I had gone wrong somewhere, -and a secret decision had to be made. I picked up the phone, dialed a -number, and made an appointment. - -I started my analysis because I was in trouble. I needed expert help and -I went out and got it. Later it dawned upon me that this is really the -significant thing: not that there are so many people in today’s world -who need help, but the miraculous urge on the part of the individual -himself to get well. The fact that people on the whole don’t want to be -sick, don’t want to be haunted by nameless difficulties, convinces me -that at the very bottom of one’s being is the urge to be good, to the -good. This is more important than any description of the experience of -analysis, which, although it may be invaluable to the person who suffers -through it, is but a process of living ... nothing more. After all, it -was Freud who said that life is two things: Work and Love. - -As I came to tentative grips with my fears of rejection—and the -self-rejections these fears imposed—I began more and more to act like -myself, like the man who started the Seven Stairs. If Hamlet’s problem -lay in his fear of confusing reality and appearance, so, too, was mine. -Only I was not Hamlet and my task was not the avenging of a father’s -murder. My task was even more basic. I had to just keep on giving birth -to myself. - -It was a long time before I perceived that Lionel Blitzsten was less a -cause of my problem than a factor in its treatment. Who was this strange -and often solitary genius, who died leaving such a rich legacy of -interpretative techniques to his profession, who lived like an ancient -potentate, offering to a crowd of sycophants whatever satisfactions are -to be gained from basking in reflected glory? - -My relationship with him revealed things which I was slow in admitting -to my analyst. I shall never forget the energy I expended telling my -analyst how “good” I was. Fortunately I wasn’t in the hands of a -charlatan. He interrupted me—one of those rare interruptions—and told me -that we both knew how good I was, so quit wasting time and money on -_that_. - -Lionel was like life itself: an amalgam of selfishness, egoism, cruelty; -of goodness, gentleness, compassion. He offered it all in almost cosmic -profusion, and with cosmic capriciousness. Once he remarked: “The world -owes me nothing. When I die, I will not be sorry. I had joy, still do; I -had love, still have it; I had friends, still have them. I had all and -felt all and saw all and ... believed all. I had everything and I had -nothing. I had what I think life, in its total meaning, is: I had the -dream, the ‘chulum mensch.’” - -This I believe is what he was—a “chulum mensch.” It contained everything -a dream could and should, good and bad. And much of it was glorious. No -one who shared this part could thank him enough for the privilege of -being admitted. - - - - - 7 - Farewell to the Seven Stairs - - -I had to break it to them gently ... and to myself, as well. It took a -long time to compose the letter to go to all my clients. “Sometime -between June 30th and July 20th,” the letter said, “the Seven Stairs -will end its stand on Rush Street and move to 670 North Michigan Avenue, -where it will resume life as Stuart Brent: Books and Records. - -“Everything that the Seven Stairs has come to stand for will continue. -The place will be lovely and cozy and warm—the conversations easily as -crazy and possibly more inspired. More than that—all of the wonderful -possibilities that we have been developing over the past five years can -now bear fruit.” - -I reviewed the history of the shop, trying to set down some of the -memorable landmarks in its growth. “... and so it has gone,” I wrote -blithely, “always fresh and magical, punctuated by famous and admired -visitors—Joseph Szigeti, Katharine Cornell, Elliot Paul, Ernest -Hemingway, Arthur Koestler, Frieda Fromm Reichmann, Nelson Algren, Gore -Vidal, Carol Brice, many others—wonderful talk—parties—exhibits. You -have been a part of it with us. - -“But physically, the Seven Stairs could never meet our needs fully. It -was too small. Congestion forced us to give up those author cocktail -parties for launching good new books. It kept us from promoting lectures -and exhibits. It put a definite limit to the size of our stock. And even -if we could have made more space, we couldn’t have afforded it without -an increase in street trade which Rush Street couldn’t provide. - -“However, for all the crowding, the worn appearance, the careless -bookkeeping, the hopeless methods of keeping our stock of books and -records in proper order—the Seven Stairs set the tone we dreamed of. - -“That tone—with all the ease and informality—will go with it to Michigan -Avenue. Probably nothing like it has ever happened to the Avenue. It’s -about time it did.” - -My message to the faithful was heartfelt, but more than a little -disingenuous. It mentioned the economics of bookselling only in passing. -And these economic factors had at last caught up with me. I might ignore -my accountant, but when Jennie and I were invited among the well-fed and -well-cared-for, we were distinctly surrounded by the aura of the “poor -relation.” I might congratulate myself upon having accomplished, against -absurd odds, so much of what I had initially dreamed about, but I was no -longer responsible only to this dream: I had a growing family—and I -wasn’t unhappy about this, either. It seemed to me, in spite of all the -evidence the modern world has to present to the contrary, that the -fullness of life (in which the feeding, clothing, and housing of a -family traditionally figure) ought not, as a matter of principle, stand -irrevocably opposed to personal fulfillment or spiritual realization. - -There wasn’t room in the Seven Stairs, it is true—for books and records, -for parties, for anything else. But room is not the great necessity—it -can always be made, if the spirit is willing. The plain fact of the -matter was that my situation was economically self-limiting in its scope -and its momentum. Only a certain number of people could be drawn into -its sphere, and time and the accidents of time would take their toll. -Some of the parties did not draw. Some of the clientele who dropped out -or who were alienated through the vagaries of my personal relations were -not replaced. I was either going to have to regress toward my beginnings -or advance toward something which would suggest, at least, the -possibility of greater scope. - -Did this possibility exist along a well-traveled market place (the -Chicago version of Fifth Avenue, although pictorially more impressive -than its Manhattan counterpart), which lay only a block away from the -questionable Rush Street area? - -The opportunity to confront this question came about, again, through one -of the apparent accidents of life, which I identify under the rather -occult heading of “attractiveness.” - -Without Jack Pritzker there could have been no move to Michigan Avenue. -Jack and his wife, Rhoda, came into our lives at a cocktail party and -became close friends. Rhoda is English by birth and wears her charm and -dignity like a delicate mystery. She has a gift for seeing and has -written wonderful articles as a correspondent for British newspapers. -Jack, also, has the effortless manner that stems from a quality of mind. -He is as unlike me as any man can be: impassive, almost secretive, yet I -have never known a more comfortable man to be with. He is a lawyer with -large interests in real estate and a quiet passion for being a mover -behind the success of others. He will not forsake you when the going is -rough, but in his relations he holds to a fine line between friendship -and duty—and holds you to this line also. I had already experienced the -danger of the kind of benefactor who tends to take over your life for -you but with Jack Pritzker there is never this danger. He prefers to see -you make it on your own. If you are beset by circumstances which you -cannot control, he is there; but if you are merely waiting for something -to happen, you can expect nothing but the criticism you deserve. - -This gentle, quiet man, tough yet sentimental, absorbed in his business, -yet somehow viewing it as an experiment with life rather than a -livelihood, devoted to concrete matters and the hard world of finance -and power, yet in conversation concerned only with the breadth of life -and the humanness of experience, provided a scarcely felt polarity that -gave direction to my often chaotic forces. - -When I heard that Jack had a financial interest in a medical office -building under construction on Michigan Avenue, I asked to rent one of -the street level stores. It was not a matter of seeking financial -assistance—it was entirely enough to be accepted as the kind of -“prestige tenant” normally sought for such a location. But when Hy -Abrams, my lawyer, went to see about the lease, he reported that Jack -remarked, “If you think I’m letting Stuart in this store to see him -fail, you are mistaken. I have no intention of standing by and watching -him and his family tenting out in Grant Park.” - -But even though someone might be keeping a weather eye on my survival, I -had to face up to my own money problems. It is madness to go into -business without a bankroll under the mattress. I thought I could see my -way to making it on the Avenue, but where was the cash outlay coming -from for fixtures, additional stock, everything? Not even my reformed -accountant could prepare a financial statement that would qualify me for -additional bank loans. - -There was a way, however, and it was opened to me by a client who, as a -vice president of the First National Bank of Chicago, was about the last -person I thought of approaching with my difficulties. I knew about banks -by now, although I had somewhat revised my opinions about the personal -limitations of all bankers. In fact, it was always a source of genuine -pleasure to me when this particular banker, a tall, handsome man with -greying hair and a fine pair of grey eyes to match, came into the shop. - -When I told him of my projected move, it was natural for him to ask how -I was financing it. I told him I didn’t know, but I was certainly going -to have to find a way. - -“May I offer a suggestion?” he said. - -We sat down by the fire, and he told me first what I already knew: that -normally when a business man needs extra money, especially for a -cyclical business dependent on certain seasons, he will go to the bank -for a short-term loan, say for ninety days. But in New York, he told me, -there is a large department store that finances its own improvement and -expansion programs. Instead of going to the bank, the store goes to its -customers. My friend suggested that I do the same. - -“Here’s how it works,” he said. “Write a letter to your hundred best -accounts explaining what you hope to do. Ask them to help by sending you -one hundred dollars in advance payment against future purchases. In -return, you will offer them a twenty percent discount on all merchandise -purchased under this plan. And of course they may take as long a time as -they wish in using up the amount they have advanced.” - -Even as he spoke, he pulled out his pen and began composing the letter. -We worked on it for an hour, and the next day we met at lunch to draft -the final copy. I sent the approved message to one hundred and -twenty-five people, and I received one hundred and twenty-five -replies—each with a hundred dollar check! - -There remained little else to do in the way of arrangements except to -break my present lease. It was not easy, but it was a pleasure. Now that -I planned to move, my landlord’s attitude was something to behold. He -danced the length of the shop on his tiny feet, his cane twirling madly, -alternating between cries of “Excellent! Your future is assured!” and -“But of course you’ll pay the rent here, too!” He did not know, he said, -what “the corporation” would think of any proposal for subletting the -premises. Finally he doffed his black hat, waved goodbye, and skipped -out of the store. - -A week later I heard from him. The answer on subleasing was a qualified -yes. If I could get a tenant as responsible and dignified as myself and -with equally brilliant prospects for success, they would consider it. - -I advertised for weeks and no such madman responded. Then one day the -answer walked in the door, a huge man with the general physique of the -late Sidney Greenstreet, hooded eyes, and a great beard. He looked -around, blinked like an owl, and said he’d take it. It was as simple as -that. I realized, with a slight sinking feeling, that I was now -perfectly free to move to the Avenue. - -My formidable successor to the home of the Seven Stairs turned out to -indeed be a man of brilliant prospects. He opened a Thought Factory, -evidenced by a sign to this effect and bulletin boards covered with -slips of paper bearing thoughts. Needless to say, he was in the public -relations and advertising business. I have always felt grateful to him, -but I never got up courage to cross that once adored threshold and see -Mr. Sperry making thoughts. - - -When the Columbia Record people approached me concerning the possibility -of a party in connection with the release of a record by the jazz -pianist, Max Miller, it struck me this might be just the thing as a -rousing, and possibly rowdy, farewell to the Seven Stairs. - -Somehow, when I phoned our original fellows in literature, the gaiety of -my announcement did not come off. I called Bob Parrish, who had once -turned an autographing party into a magic show, and was greeted by an -awesome silence, followed by a lame, “We’ll be there.” There was similar -response from others on the list, but they _did_ come, all of them ... -even Samuel Putnam, who journeyed all the way from Connecticut. - -We had rented a piano and managed to get it in through the back of the -building by breaking through a wall. The bricks were terribly loose -anyway, and it wasn’t much work to put them back and replaster when it -was all over. Max Miller had promised to bring along a good side man, -and he did: Louis Armstrong. Armstrong was immediately comfortable in -the shop. “This is a wise man,” he said. He didn’t know I was giving up -the ghost at the Seven Stairs. - -Perhaps the end of the Stairs was a symbol for more than the demise of a -personal book store. During the period in which I had set up shop, the -old _Chicago Sun_ had launched the first literary Sunday supplement -devoted entirely to books to be published by a newspaper outside of New -York City. At least one issue of this supplement, called “Book Week,” -had carried more book advertising than either the _New York Times_ “Book -Review” or the _Herald Tribune_ “Magazine of Books.” The _Chicago -Tribune_ had followed suit with a book supplement and, together with the -_Sun_, offered a platform for people like Butcher, Babcock, North, -Apple, Frederick, Kogan, Wendt, Spectorsky, and others who were not only -distinguished critics and authors, but who truly loved the world of -books. Their efforts had certainly contributed to the climate that made -the Seven Stairs possible. The diminution of this influence (today only -the _Tribune_ carries a full-scale book supplement) was in direct -relationship to the decline of my own enterprise. - -For the last party, everyone came. There were the remaining literary -editors, Fanny Butcher of the _Tribune_, Emmet Dedmon of the -_Sun-Times_, and Van Allen Bradley of the _Daily News_ (the latter two -fated to move along to editorial positions on their newspapers). There -was Otto Eisenschiml and there was Olive Carrithers, for whom one of our -first literary parties had been given. The psychoanalysts came: Lionel -Blitzsten (who had assured everyone that I really wouldn’t, couldn’t, -make the move), Roy Grinker, Fred Robbins, Harvey Lewis, and of course -Robert Kohrman, who was still to see me through so much. There was -Sidney Morris, the architect; Henry Dry, the entrepreneur; Ed Weiss, the -advertising executive who discovered the subliminal world and asked -which twin had the Toni; and Everett Kovler and Oscar Getz of the liquor -industry. Louis played and sang and signed records and shook hands and -sang some more, and Miller played and autographed while the apparent -hilarity grew, the shouting, laughing, and singing. It was a very little -shop, and had there been rafters you could have said it was full to -them. But Ben Kartman was grim, Reuel Denny seemed bewildered, and above -all, the old gang: Algren, Conroy, Parrish, Terkel, Motley, Herman Kogan -... they were being charming and decent enough, but something was out of -kilter. I had never seen them more affable, but it wasn’t quite -right—being affable wasn’t really their line. - -Terkel occasionally emerged from the throng to m.c. the performance. -Studs Terkel is a Chicago phenomenon, a talented actor and impresario of -the wellsprings of culture, whether jazz or folksongs. In the early days -of commercial television, when the experimenting was being done in -Chicago, he created a type of entertainment perfectly adapted to the -intimate nature of the medium. “Studs’ Place” was the hottest show in -Chicago, so far as the response of viewers went, but it soon -disappeared. Apparently what Chicago offered could not be exported. The -strange belief continues to persist that the tastes of America can -properly be tested only on the Broadway crowd (the knowing) or the -Hollywood Boulevard misfits (the paranoiac). The crowds and misfits -elsewhere do not seem to constitute a suitable national index. Anyway, -so far we have not been able to export Studs. - -In the growing crowd and increasing turbulence and raucousness, I didn’t -care any longer what happened. I just stood in a corner and tried to -look friendly. Rhoda and Jack Pritzker came in with a party of friends. -People were crushing about Studs and Louis, urging Louis to sing and Max -to play. Suddenly I was terribly tired. I wanted air. I was just getting -out when the ceiling came down. - -The toilet was on the second floor (it served the entire building) and, -never very dependable, it had come to the end of the line. When it -broke, the water came flooding down through the ceiling onto the people -in the shop and taking the plaster with it. Louis was soaked. I shall -always remember Rhoda Pritzker barraged by falling plaster and Dorothea -Parrish losing her poise and letting out a war whoop. Studs got a piece -of ceiling in his eye. Max Miller was directly beneath the broken pipe -and suffered the consequences. For some moments it seemed as though the -total disintegration of the aged structure was at hand. - -I ran up the stairs and began applying my best flood control technique. -Finally, with the aid of a pile of rags, we managed to staunch the flow. -Those engaged were exhausted, but the party was made; now the laughter -rang with real gaiety and the songs soared with enthusiasm. It was one -hell of a wake. - -The last song was “Honeysuckle Rose.” The damp musicians thanked -everyone for listening and said goodbye. There was a hurry of -leavetaking. Soon only Ira Blitzsten, Bob Kohrman, and Ben Kartman -remained. - -There was nothing left but to turn off the lights and close up, yet I -couldn’t bring myself to rise from behind the desk. No more building -inspectors, no more landlord wishing me good luck, no more broken -plumbing ... just the end of the world. All I had to do was get up, look -around for the last time, turn off the lights. - -Look around at what? The old bookshelves made out of third grade lumber? -The dark green walls that Tweedy and Carl Dry had helped paint? The -absurd little bench with its hopeful inscriptions? I didn’t need to -worry about the bench. I could take that with me. - -There was the barrel in the corner, half full of apples ... the battered -old coffee pot sitting on the hot plate ... and the string dangling from -the ceiling from which a salami once depended. I always bought my -sausage from a little old Hassidic Jew who appeared from time to time in -his long black coat, black hat, and with a grey and black beard -extending down his chest. We would haggle over the price and he would -shower me with blessings when he left. All of this was spiced with -Rabelaisian jests. Once I asked him, while studying the sausage -situation, “Tell me, do you think sex is here to stay?” He thought a -moment. “I don’t know vy not,” he said. “It’s in a vunderful location!” - -Somehow, I did not see a salami hanging in my new Michigan Avenue -location. - -But onward and upward! Don’t turn back now, or Lionel’s prediction will -come true. All is well. The lease is signed, the fixtures are paid for, -you’ve o.k.’d the color the walls are to be painted, no one is -threatening you, and you’ve put down a month’s advance on the rent. So -please get up and turn off the lights. - -It was not I, but a zombie moving mechanically toward the future, who -touched the button, left the room, and softly shut the door. - - - - - 8 - On the Avenue - - -In all my life, I had never shopped on Michigan Avenue. I had no idea -who was in business there or what they sold (except for a general -feeling that they sold expensive merchandise and made plenty of money). -It was only after I had opened the doors of Stuart Brent: Books and -Records, that I discovered what a strategic location I had chosen ... -strategically in competition with two of the best-known book dealers in -the city! - -Only a block down the street was the Main Street Book Store, already a -fixture on the Avenue for a decade. A few blocks farther south stood -Kroch’s, Chicago’s largest bookseller and one of the greatest in -America, while north of me the Michigan Avenue branch of Lyon and Healy, -the great music store, still flourished. And I thought what the Avenue -needed was Stuart Brent with his books and records! Maybe it was, but -the outlook did not seem propitious. - -Now, ten years later, Main Street and I are still selling books and not, -I think, suffering from each other’s proximity. Main Street’s -orientation has always been toward art, and they run a distinguished -gallery in connection with their business. Lyon and Healy eventually -closed its branch operation, and Kroch’s left the Avenue when they -merged with Brentano, an equally large organization with which I have no -family connection, on the Italian side or any other. These -consolidations, I am sure, were simply manifestations of big business. -If I were to fret about the competition, it would be that of the dime -store next door, which sells books and records, too. - -In addition to the street-level floor, my new shop had a fine basement -room which I fitted out hopefully as a meeting place. I immediately -began staging lectures and parties and put in a grand piano so we could -have concerts, too. Anything to bring in people. Business grew, but as I -soon found I would have to sell things besides books in order to meet -the overhead, I compromised on long-standing principles and brought in -greeting cards. Within six months, I was also selling “how to do it -books”—how to eat, how to sleep, how to love, how to fix the leaky pipe -in your basement, how to pet your cat, how to care for your dog, how to -see the stars.... - -By the time I had been on the Avenue a year, it was hard for me to see -how my shop differed from any other where you might find some good books -and records if you looked under the pop numbers and bestsellers. -Apparently some people still found a difference, however. In his book -_The Literary Situation_, Malcolm Cowley, the distinguished critic, -wrote: - - On Michigan Avenue, I passed another shop and recognized the - name on the window. Although the salesroom wasn’t large, it was - filled with new books lining the walls or piled on tables. There - were also two big racks of long-playing records, and a hidden - phonograph was playing Mozart as I entered (feeling again that I - was a long way from Clark and Division). The books on the - shelves included almost everything published during the last two - or three years that I had any curiosity about reading. In two - fields the collection was especially good: psychiatry and books - by Chicago authors. - - I introduced myself to the proprietor, Stuart Brent, and found - that he was passionately interested in books, in the solution of - other people’s personal problems, and in his native city. Many - of his customers are young people just out of college. Sometimes - they tell him about their problems and he says to them, “Read - this book. You might find the answer there.” He is mildly famous - in the trade for his ability to sell hundreds of copies of a - book that arouses his enthusiasm: for example, he had probably - found more readers for Harry Stack Sullivan’s _An Interpersonal - Theory of Psychiatry_ than any other dealer in the country, even - the largest. Collections of stories are usually slow-moving - items in bookstores, although they have proved to be more - popular as paperbacks. One evening Brent amazed the publisher of - Nelson Algren’s stories, _The Neon Wilderness_, by selling a - thousand copies of the hardcover book at an autograph party. - - We talked about the days when the Near North Side was full of - young authors—many of whom became famous New Yorkers—and about - the possibility of another Chicago renaissance, as in the years - after 1915. Brent would like to do something to encourage such a - movement. He complained that most of the other booksellers - didn’t regard themselves as integrated parts of the community - and that they didn’t take enough interest in the personal needs - of their customers.... Brent’s complaint against the booksellers - may well have been justified, from his point of view, but a - visitor wouldn’t expect to find that any large professional - group was marked by his combination of interest in persons, - interest in the cultural welfare of the community, and abounding - energy. - - As a group, the booksellers I have met in many parts of the - country are widely read, obliging, likable persons who regard - bookselling as a profession and work hard at it, for lower - incomes than they might receive from other activities. They - would all like to sell more books, in quantities like those of - the paperbacks in drugstores and on the news stands, but they - are dealing in more expensive articles, for which the public - seems to be limited. - -_The Literary Situation_ was published by Viking Press in 1954. I had -met Mr. Cowley on a January evening the year before. When he came in, -tall and distinguished looking, I had given him a chance to browse -before asking if I could be of assistance. He smiled when I offered my -help, then asked if I had a copy of _Exile’s Return_. I did. He fingered -the volume and asked if I made a living selling books. “Of course,” I -said, slightly miffed. - -“But who in Chicago buys books like the ones you have on these shelves?” -he asked. - -“Lots and lots of people,” I assured him. I still didn’t know he was -baiting me. We began to talk about Chicago, as I now saw it and as it -had been. In a moment, he was off on Bug House Square (Chicago’s -miniature Hyde Park), the lamented Dill Pickle Club, the young -Hemingway, Ben Hecht, Charlie MacArthur, Dreiser, Sherwood Anderson, -Archibald MacLeish, Sinclair Lewis. I had to ask his name, and when he -said, Malcolm Cowley, I took _Exile’s Return_ away from him and asked -him to autograph it to me. He took the book back and wrote: “To Stuart -Brent—a _real_ bookstore.” I felt better about being on the Avenue. - -The next evening, Mr. and Mrs. Cowley came to one of our concerts in the -downstairs room and heard Badura-Skoda and Irene Jonas play a duo -recital. - -America lacks the cafés and coffee houses that serve as literary meeting -places in all European countries. I had high hopes for our basement room -with its piano and hi-fi set and tables and comfortable chairs as a -place for such interchange. In addition to our concerts, lectures, and -art exhibits, there were Saturday afternoon gatherings of men and women -from a wide range of professions and disciplines who dropped in to talk -and entertain each other. We served them coffee and strudel. - -Possibly the most memorable of our concerts was that played by William -Primrose. He had promised long ago to do one if I ever had a shop with -the facilities for it. We had them now, and quite suddenly Primrose -called to announce that he would be stopping over in Chicago on his way -to play with the Boston Symphony Orchestra and would be delighted to -present us with a recital. - -There were only a few days to prepare for the event. As soon as the word -was out, we were deluged with phone calls. Our “concert hall” would seat -only fifty people, so I decided to clear the floor on the street level, -rent two hundred chairs for the overflow audience, and pipe the music up -to them from the downstairs room. I hired a crew of experts to arrange -the microphones and set up the speakers. - -The show did not start with any particular aplomb, and it got worse, for -me at least, as the evening progressed. Primrose came early to practice. -It hadn’t occurred to me that he needed to. He wanted not only to -practice, but moreover a place in which he could do so undisturbed. -Since the “concert hall” was swarming with electricians, not to mention -the porter setting up chairs while I ran up and down the stairs -alternating between a prima donna and a major domo, it looked as though -another place would have to be found for Primrose to practice. I -therefore took the great violist into a basement storage room that -served as a catchall shared by my shop and the drugstore next door. But -Primrose settled down happily in the dirty, poorly lit room amid stacks -of old bills, Christmas decorations, old shelves and fixtures, empty -bottles and cartons of Kleenex and went to work. - -In less than ten minutes, a little grey man who filled prescriptions -came bounding down the stairs screaming, “Where is Brent? Where is -Brent?” He caught me in the hall and continued yelling, “If this -infernal racket doesn’t stop, honest to God, I’ll call the police!” It -was no use telling him the man making the racket was one of the world’s -greatest musicians. He had never heard of Primrose and couldn’t have -cared less. The noise coming up the vents, he claimed, was not only -causing a riot in the drugstore, but he was so unnerved by the sounds -that he had already ruined two prescriptions. While he was howling about -his losses, I began howling with laughter. But there seemed nothing to -do but get Primrose out of that room. - -I moved my star into our receiving room, a messy cubbyhole ten feet -wide. He didn’t seem to mind, although now, since he couldn’t walk up -and down, he was confined to sitting in a chair for his practice. - -Meantime, a crowd far beyond our capacity had swarmed into both levels -of the shop. Those who came early got seats. Others sat on the stairs -leading down to the hall. The rest stood, and some even spilled out the -door onto Michigan Avenue. I couldn’t get from one end of the place to -the other without stepping on people. I found myself begging someone’s -pardon all evening long. - -Then the complaints began. Those seated in the hall were gasping for -air. Our cooling system simply wasn’t up to handling that many people. I -rushed to the boiler room where the gadgets for controlling the -air-conditioning were located and tried to improve the situation. Of -course, I made it worse. - -Finally I introduced Primrose to the audience and beat a hasty retreat. -Almost at once an “important” guest tackled me with his complaints. I -beat my way upstairs (those sitting on the stairs discovered they were -not able to hear a thing) and after tripping over dozens of feet and -crushing against uncounted bodies was confronted by a thin, long woman -wearing a turban hat, who seized me and, amid this utter confusion, -began telling me I was the most wonderful man alive. Her eyes were -burning and every time she took a breath, she rolled her tongue across -her lips. I was fascinated, but desperate. “What do you want?” I begged, -willing to do virtually anything to extricate myself. “I want you to be -my agent,” she said, pressing me to the wall. “I’m an author and I’ll -have nothing to do with anyone but you.” - -I ducked beneath her outstretched arms, trampled some people, caught my -foot in the lead wire to one of the microphones, and fell heavily into -the lap of one of the most attractive women I have ever seen. She fell -off her chair onto the floor and I rolled on top of her. A folding chair -ahead of me collapsed, and before anything could be done, a dozen lovers -of music and literature lay sprawled on top of one another, while those -not engaged in this chain reaction pronounced menacing “shooshes.” By -the time I had righted myself, several friends had come up from the -concert hall to complain about the noise upstairs. - -Finally the concert ended. I was later told that William Primrose gave a -brilliant performance—something to be remembered and cherished for a -lifetime. I would not know. All I know is that the “most attractive -woman in the world” in whose lap I landed sent me a bill for eighty -dollars to replace the dress which I apparently had torn beyond -reconstruction. I paid the bill. - - -There were other fine parties, among them one that grew out of the -arrival of a play called “Mrs. McThing,” a funny, whimsical, adroit -production which could be the product only of a great goodness of the -heart. Helen Hayes and Jules Munshin were the stars. - -I loved every minute of the play, and in addition to being entranced by -Miss Hayes’ remarkable performance, thought Jules Munshin to be -extraordinarily comical in his role. One of his telling lines was, -“Let’s have a meeting,” no matter what the situation that provoked it. -The problem might be entirely trivial, but before a decision could be -made, a meeting first took place. As things do happen, the morning after -the play opened in Chicago, Mr. Munshin walked into the shop along with -another member of the cast. It was impossible to greet him with any -other words, but, “Let’s have a meeting!” We became friends instantly, -and when the play neared the end of its run, we decided there should be -a farewell party for the cast. Jules asked Miss Hayes if she would come, -and I was properly thrilled when she agreed. - -So on closing night they all came to the bookstore, along with about -thirty people Jennie and I had asked to join us. The program did not -have to be planned. There was singing, reciting, story-telling. Then, -quite by surprise, Miss Hayes’ colorful husband joined us. The fun -really began, not only in heightened conversation, but when the -MacArthurs’ daughter sat at the piano with Chet Roble and played and -sang. Roble is another Chicago “original”—an artist of the blues and a -superb personality and musician who has been playing over the years at -Chicago hotels and night spots and always attracts a large and -appreciative following. He was part of the cast of Terkel’s famous -“Studs’ Place” show. He represents an almost lost art not only in his -old-time jazz musicianship, but also in terms of cabaret -entertainment—the performer who genuinely loves his work and his -audience and who will remember ten years later the face of someone he -met in a noisy night club crowd. - -It was an all-night party. I talked with Miss Hayes about Ben Hecht, who -had collaborated with Charles MacArthur on “The Front Page,” which -opened quite a new page for the American theatre. She agreed that Ben -could talk more sense, more dramatically than any author we knew. I had -had an autographing party for Ben’s book, _Child of a Century_, an -autobiographical study of his life and development as a writer. We sold -almost 800 copies of the book that night. Ben came with his wife and -daughter and sat behind the desk with a cigar in his mouth, his eyes -dreamy, his mind tending toward some distant land, but he was most -affable, while repeating over and over: “I’ve never done such a thing in -my whole life. And I’ve been writing for forty years!” - -Later Hecht had taken me to the old haunts of the Chicago literary -scene. We sat in a tavern he had frequented while working on the now -defunct _Chicago Journal_. He showed me where Hemingway took boxing -lessons. We went to the building where Ben had lived on the fourth floor -and Hemingway on the floor beneath. It was a time not long past, yet far -away and long ago. - -We viewed the former locale of the Dill Pickle Club, the famous literary -tavern. Ben talked to me with personal insight about Sherwood Anderson, -Theodore Dreiser, Maxwell Bodenheim, Covici Friede, and others, among -them, some of whose fame lay in tragic ends—death by drink, suicide, or -merciless twists of fate. - -Not long ago, I phoned Ben at his home in Nyack, New York. Red Quinlan, -the television executive, had an idea for a series of literary shows to -be called, “You Can’t Go Home Again.” He had talked to me about being -narrator, and I in turn had suggested Ben Hecht for the first interview. - -“Ben,” I said, “this is Stuart Brent. Do you remember me?” - -There was a flat, “Yes,” as though he didn’t, really. - -“I’m calling to tell you,” I said, “that we have a great idea for a TV -show and I want to interview you for it. It’s called....” - -“I don’t want to hear it,” he said. “I don’t want a living thing to do -with TV. Don’t tell me what you have to say. I don’t want to hear it.” - -“Wait a minute,” I said, “you haven’t given me a chance.” - -“I don’t want to give you a chance,” he said. “I have no use for TV or -anybody who writes for TV. It’s worse than snaring little girls away -from home.” - -“You still don’t understand,” I said. - -“Look mister,” he said, “I understand. I just don’t want to hear your -proposition. I want nothing to do with you or television. Is that -clear?” - -“Wait a minute, Ben,” I said, “this is Stuart Brent from Chicago, don’t -you remember?” - -“Oh, Stu. Where are you calling from?” - -“From Chicago.” - -“Oh my God. Why did you let me run off like that? I thought you were -some two for a nickel joker from a television agency. I’m sorry. How are -you, baby?” - -“Fine,” I said, “but I do want to talk with you about a TV series that I -hope I’m going to do.” - -“Sorry, baby, the answer is no. Not for any money in the world.” - -“Well, how are you financially?” - -“Ach, you know. Same damn thing. But I don’t care. I’m busy, killing -myself with writing. I’ve got a hot book coming out soon. Be sure and -get a copy. It’s really hot.” - -“I wish you’d hear what I have to say. It’s really a fine idea.” - -“Sorry, no. How’s the bookstore?” - -So we talked of books and the time I nearly blew a gasket when Ben -autographed his book, _Charlie_, at another Chicago store. He had sent -me a carbon copy of his manuscript on that talented and lovable bum, -Charles MacArthur, and I had told him I hoped we could raise a stir with -a real party when the book came out. He agreed, having been considerably -impressed with the first party we held for him. Ben was in Italy writing -a movie scenario when the publication date of _Charlie_ was announced. -Upon receiving a cablegram requesting a Chicago autographing party date, -he wired, Yes, thinking it was to be at my bookstore. It wasn’t ... and -for weeks after the event was held, nobody dared get near me. - -“I’m still sorry about that mixup,” Ben said. “Well, o.k., baby, take -care of yourself. When you get to New York, give me a ring and I’ll meet -you for a drink at the Algonquin.” - -I remembered my original purpose and tried again. “For the last time, -you won’t listen to me about this TV thing?” - -“Absolutely, irrevocably, no. Goodbye, Stu.” - -I was left pondering about the strange and rather terrifying creature -that is Ben Hecht, a wise, witty man of the world with the disarming -gentleness of a tamed jungle beast. I thought again of our sentimental -revisiting of Hechtian haunts ... the small tavern across from Bug House -Square where Ben paced off the original setting: “In this corner was a -stage, here were the tables, and there were the two chairs that belonged -to Charlie and me. Here, in this corner, we wrote _The Front Page_.” - -Suddenly he put down his beer and said, “Let’s take a taxi over to the -campus. I want to show you where Carl Wanderer lived.” - -We hadn’t traveled far before Ben changed the course and directed the -cab driver to let us off near the Civic Opera building. We walked down a -few stairs into another tavern and Ben stood, cigar in mouth, looking. -There were a few men at the bar and the bartender, leaning on outspread -arms and returning Ben’s look inquiringly. - -“Have you seen John Randolph or Michael Brown or Rudy York?” Ben said. - -No one there had ever heard of them. - -Ben muttered under his breath. “I guess they’re all dead,” he said. “I -used to work with them on the _Journal American_.” - -We sat down and ordered a beer. “I think this must be the place,” he -said, “but I might have it mixed up. We had good times together. We had -a real ball with this character, Wanderer. Do you know the story? - -“Well, Wanderer was an ex-army officer who discovered that his wife was -pregnant. He didn’t want the child because he feared it would interfere -with resuming his army career. He wanted to re-enlist. So he arranged -for a fake holdup on Ingleside Avenue. That’s where I want to take you -now. - -“Anyway, he got a bum off Clark Street and gave the guy a few dollars to -make this holdup, assuring him it was just a trick to be played on his -wife for fun. Wanderer took his wife to the movies that night, to a -theatre, if my memory is correct, called the Midway. And on their way -home, they have to walk almost half a block along the side of a school -yard. The streets are poorly lit, and this bum sticks a gun to Wanderer -and yells, ‘This is a stick-up!’ - -“The bum never had a real gun. But Wanderer did. He pretended to -struggle with the guy and then shot him ... turned the gun on his wife, -too, and killed her instantly. Then he wiped off the gun and shoved it -into the bum’s dead hand. It looked as though the robber had been -resisted and somehow shot in the fight. Wanderer became a hero -overnight, and the newspapers played him up for all it was worth.” - -Ben and Carl Sandburg, who was then a reporter on the _Journal_, were -eventually responsible for breaking the case. They went to interview the -hero and came away with mutual misgivings which they confided to the -police. It was a triumph worthy of _The Front Page_, but I think it was -the irony of the world’s readiness for hero worship that made pricking -the Wanderer balloon such a satisfying episode in the life of Ben Hecht. - - -In spite of all our efforts, the lectures and concerts in our downstairs -room did not continue to draw indefinitely. Sometimes we couldn’t get -fifty people to come out of an evening to hear good music for free (and -one of the finest chamber groups in the city was providing us with a -series just for the chance to play.) Saturday afternoons were -idle—people seemed to have become too busy to spend time in simple -conversation. - -Book sales dropped, too. Price cutting hurt the psychiatric mail order -business, although we held out for several years. Finally we -discontinued the catalogue, in spite of its definitive value as a -listing of significant books in this field. - -Again, something new had to be done and done quickly. I decided to go -after business and industrial accounts and to persuade them to give -books instead of whiskey for Christmas presents. My successes included -selling a bank 250 copies of the Columbia Encyclopedia, with the name of -each recipient stamped in gold on the cover. I’m not sure this did much -for the human spirit, but it helped pay the rent. - -One afternoon Ben Kartman came in with a friend who had some ideas about -Brent and television. They arranged an audition, I was accepted, and for -almost a year I had a fifteen minute afternoon show, sandwiched between -a program on nursing and one on cooking. Financially it was a disaster. -I was paid scale, which at that time was $120 per week, and after I paid -my union dues and my agent’s fees, most of the cost of the extra help I -had to hire to cover the shop during my absences came right out of my -own pocket. But I did learn this: be very careful what you sign, re-read -the small print, and be sure to see your lawyer—lessons that would be -helpful when television again beckoned in ways to be fully described in -another chapter. - -Every morning as I turned the key in the lock and entered the shop, my -heart sank. Each day brought trouble, process servers, trips to the -lawyer. This was what came from entering a retail business without a -financial “cushion”—and especially a business that demanded a large -stock: for every book I sold, I had to buy three ... three books it -might take months to sell. Sometimes I could visualize the credit -managers sitting down for a meeting—their agenda: Let’s Get Brent. There -was nothing to do but fight it out, worry it out, dream it out. - -I have said disparaging things about the publishing industry and shall -say more. But it was publishers and their representatives who, in large -measure, saw me through. There was Robert Fitzhenry from Harper, now -some kind of an executive, then one of the top salesmen in the business. -He reminded one of Hemingway’s description of Algren: watch out for him -or he will kill you with a punch. At one time you’d have thought from -the titles on the shelves that I was a branch store for Harper. There -was Joe Reiner from Crown Publishers, one of the first to sell me books -out of New York. He too has graduated into the executive category. He -taught me many things about the book business, and it was he who -arranged for me to buy old book fixtures from the late Dorothy Gottlieb, -the vivid, marvelous proprietress of the Ambassador Bookstore. - -Bennett Cerf, master showman of the industry, gave me a measure of -prestige when I needed it by making me an editor, along with Jessie -Stein, of the Psychiatric Division of Random House. I was able to help -their list with a number of important works by Chicago analysts. - -Over the years people like Ken McCormick, Michael Bessie, Pat Knopf, -Jr., Ed Hodge, Richard Grossman, Gene Healy, Peter Fields, Bob Gurney, -Max Meyerson, Bella Mell, Bill Fallon, and Hardwick Moseley became more -than business acquaintances and left their imprint on my life as well as -upon my adventures in the book world. But more about that world later. - -As business improved and as the light gradually became visible through -the turbid waters in which I seemed immersed, my energies became -increasingly focused upon the simple matter of keeping going, the -business of each day’s problems, each month’s decisions, each year’s -gains. Work and living have a way of closing in around one’s being so -completely that when fate strikes through this envelopment, it comes as -a stunning surprise. Fate does not care for what has been the object of -one’s personal concern, and it seldom sends a letter or telegram to -announce its arrival. - -It had been just another day. Jennie had complained of a headache and -some difficulty in focusing. In the afternoon we saw a doctor and in the -evening an eye specialist. Evidently it was not glaucoma. Nonetheless we -administered some eye drops and some pills. I fell asleep in the living -room in my chair that night and was awakened early in the morning by -three small children, vaguely perturbed, dragging their blankets behind -them. Jennie was dead. - -Death is not saying goodbye. One can no more say goodbye to death than -to a statue or a wall. There is nothing to say goodbye to. It is too -natural and final to be dealt with in any of the artificial, temporizing -ways with which we pretend to conduct relations with reality. - -My first impulse was to run—sell the store for whatever I could get, -pack up my things, and leave. Take off perhaps for the little fishing -village of Bark Point on the Northern tip of Wisconsin where we had a -summer place and there retire in solitude and raise the children as best -I could. - -It was Bob Kohrman who got me to quit trying to react to death and to -just go ahead and mourn. Death has no face, is no audience, has nothing -to do with reaction. It is the life of the individual that demands -everything, cries out to be lived, and if mourning is a part of this, go -ahead. So I stayed where I was and worked and mourned, until one day the -pain of loss stopped altogether. - -Michael Seller had come over to the apartment one night and talked to -me. “For one thing,” he begged, “don’t let irritations and problems pile -up. Resolve them from day to day. And another thing ... no matter what -the cost, come home every night for supper. Never let a day or night go -by without seeing your children and talking with them.” - -I followed Mike’s advice to the letter. Every night I was home for -dinner at six o’clock, even though I might have to leave later and -return to the store. My routine was established. I ate, slept, and -worked, and after store hours I gave myself to the problems that beset -all parents of small children: changing diapers and being concerned over -unexpected rashes and fevers in the night. I remembered Tolstoy’s answer -to the question: When is a man free? A man is free when he recognizes -his burden, like the ox that recognizes its yoke. - -I learned that I was not alone. It was not only old friends like Claire -Sampson bringing over a turkey for our dinner, or Lollie Wexler, early -one wintry morning unbuttoning the hood about her blonde hair and, -flushed with the cold and her own tremendous effort, saying ever so -softly, “Can I help?” It was also people I scarcely knew, such as the -strange man whose name I invariably forgot, but who dressed so -elegantly, a stickpin in his tie, his moustache beautifully trimmed, a -small flower in his lapel, and who called everybody, “Kid.” He came in -now on a wet November night and bought some detective stories. To my -astonishment, when I handed him the books, he began to weep. The tears -were irresistible, so I looked at him and wept also. “You’re a sweet -kid,” he said, strangling, and turned and left the shop. - -There was Marvin Glass, a genius at toy design, devoted like Mann’s Herr -Settembrini to the total encompassment of human knowledge. I almost had -to hire a girl to take care of his special orders alone, dispatching -telegrams, night letters, even cablegrams for books he wanted yesterday. -He spoke in confidential whispers, but his expression was always so -precise that you invariably found yourself watching carefully over every -word you uttered in response. - -There was Bert Liss, who wore the most beautiful coats I had ever seen -and a fantastic series of elegant hats: a Tyrolean hat, a checkered cap, -a Cossack fur hat, a dashing black homburg. Whenever he went crazy over -a book, at least twenty of his friends would order a copy. But more than -that, he was a gentleman, firm in his belief in the goodness of man. - -Sidney Morris, the architect who helped design the interior of the shop -(and never sent a bill) was there, not only to buy, but more important, -whenever I needed someone to confide in. There was Oscar Getz—Oscar, in -vaguely Prince Albert dress, forgetting a life of business and civic -responsibility the moment he entered the world of letters. Upon -encounter with ideas, his eyes lit up and his body began to quiver. -There was no doubt about his ability to entrance his listeners. Once, -while driving him home after an evening spent at a small café listening -to gypsy music, I became so absorbed in what he was saying that I was -presented with tickets for two traffic violations, one for failing to -stop at a red light and another for going in the wrong direction down a -one-way street. - -Another scholarly business man, Philip Pinsof, came in with his -brothers, Oscar and Eddie, and together they made it clear that I was -being cared for. In later years I was to enjoy Sabbath dinners at the -Pinsofs’—where Phil’s wife was a most gracious hostess who would seat -her husband on a red pillow, as if to say, “For five days you have -received the slings and arrows of the marketplace, but on Friday night -you are as a king in your own home.” - -George Lurie came not only to buy books but to regale me with stories, -such as the episode in which he attended the board of governors meeting -of a major university and was invited to sign a book in which each guest -had inscribed not only his name but his alma mater. George wrote his -name in the book and cryptically added H & M. The gentleman sitting next -to him asked, “Harvard and what? Massachusetts Institute of Technology?” -“No,” said George, “Halsted and Maxwell”—the address of Chicago’s famous -and still extant open air market. - -Everett Kovler, president of the Jim Beam whiskey company, made it clear -to me that I could call him and say, “Everett, I need a sale.” There -were times when I did, and he always replied, “Fine, send it.” Another -official of the same firm, George Gabor, was also my benefactor. Through -a strange twist of fate, he was able to cancel a debt that plagued me, -muttering under his breath as he bought a book, “About that ... it’s all -been washed out.” - -While the kindness of my customers served to cheer my heart no little, -my peace of mind was greatly augmented by the personal friendship and -professional concern of Dr. Arthur Shafton, the kind of pediatrician who -would come to the house at a moment’s notice to treat bleeding or -feverish children and soothe their hysterical father, the kind of -physician who views medicine as an art. Sometimes when he dropped into -the shop, he would take me in hand too, suggesting, “Perhaps you ought -to go home now, you look tired.” - -For a brief time, I also thought I had found a gem of an office girl. -She was certainly unique and physically striking: a high breasted young -creature at least six feet tall who responded to instructions by taking -a deep breath, blinking her grey-blue eyes, and intoning, “Will do!” -Then she would wheel on her spike heels, pick up her knees with an -elevation that threatened to strike her chin, and walk away, a marvel of -strange symmetry. She was the most obedient employee I ever had and the -tidiest. My desk was always clean as a whistle. But when the time came -for the month’s billings, I could find no accounts. I rushed to Miss -“Will do” in consternation. She fluttered her lashes and said, “I threw -them away.” That was how she kept my desk so clean! - -As Christmas approached, the consideration and generosity of my friends -and customers became positively orgiastic. Ruth Weiss called and said, -“I’m telling everyone I know to send books and records for Christmas,” -and apparently they did so. I have never seen so many art books sold at -one time as on the day Dr. Freund and his wife, Geraldine, came in. Dr. -Freund kept saying, “Lovely, I must have it,” to everything I showed -him, until I became thoroughly embarrassed, and still he persisted in -buying more. Sidney Morris sent books to all his architect friends, and -the purchases of Morry Rosenfeld were so prodigious that May Goodman, my -floor manager, was left speechless. The gentle Ira Rubel spent hours -making copious selections, saying quizzically of each purchase, “Do you -really think this is the most suitable?” A. N. Pritzker, Jack’s brother, -made one of his rare appearances, and bought records—a little classical, -a little operatic, a little ballet, a little jazz, a little popular, -until he had a stack three feet high which he insisted upon paying for -on the spot, although we were really too busy to figure up the amount. - -It went like this day after day, until my embarrassment at so much -kindness, and my inability to know what to say or do about it, became -almost too much. Late at night, I would lie awake thinking about all -these people rallying about me. And then my embarrassment turned to -humble acceptance of so much caring, so much human warmth. - - - - - 9 - Bark Point - - -Whenever I travel, one thing is certain: that I will get lost. Perhaps -if I could remember which is my right hand and which is my left, or tell -north from south, I should be able to follow directions more -successfully. But it probably wouldn’t help. I have an unfailing knack -for choosing the wrong turn and a constitutional incapacity for noticing -important signs. - -It was therefore not surprising that, on a summer twelve years ago, -while making my way toward Canada, I turned up Bark Bay Road thinking I -had found a short-cut and very nearly drove off a cliff overhanging Lake -Superior. Berating myself as usual, I looked around and observed a man -working in a field not far from the road. He wore a battered felt hat, a -shirt open at the neck, heavy black trousers supported by suspenders, -and strong boots. His eyes were sky blue and his weathered skin, brown -as a nut, was creased in a myriad wrinkles on the neck and about the -eyes. When I approached and asked him how to get to Canada, he replied -in an accent that I could not place. His speech was rapid and somewhat -harsh in tonality, but his manner was cheerful and friendly, so I paused -to chat with him. He said he was preparing his strawberry field for next -year. - -“This is beautiful country,” I said. - -“Ya, it is that,” he said. - -“I wish I owned some of it,” I said. “I think I could live here for the -rest of my life.” - -“Well, this land belongs to me. I might sell you an acre, if you like.” - -As we walked across the field toward the bay, he said, “Are you a son of -Abraham?” - -I had never been called anything that sounded quite so beautiful. “Yes, -I am a son of Abraham,” I said proudly. - -“My name is Waino,” he said. “I am a fisherman. But I own this land.” - -Trees, grass, and water ... there was nothing else to be seen, except a -small house covered with flowers and vines a quarter mile across a -clover field. “Who lives there?” I said. - -“My brother-in-law, Mike Mattson. He might sell you his house,” Waino -said. - -I met the Mattsons. Mike looked kindly. His eyes were grey rather than -blue, but his skin was as deeply brown as Waino’s, with as many crinkles -about the eyes. Waino’s sister, Fanny, wore a kerchief about her head, -tied with a small knot beneath her chin. She spoke little English and -our business transaction was often interrupted while Mike translated for -her in Finnish. - -I bought the house and an acre of ground. The house had only two small -rooms, no running water, no toilet. This didn’t matter. Like the room -that originally housed the Seven Stairs, _I wanted it_. I had the -identical feeling: no matter what the cost, or how great the effort and -sacrifice that might be entailed, this place must be mine. My soul -stirred with nameless wonder. I felt lifted into the air, my life -charged with new purpose and meaning. I put down one hundred dollars as -earnest money, arranged a contract for monthly payments, and became a -part of Bark Point. - -Bark Point is located at the northernmost corner of Wisconsin. At this -writing, exactly five people live there the year around. In summer, the -Brents arrive, and our neighbors, Clay Dana, Victor Markkulla, Robert -McElroy, Waino Wilson and the Mike Mattsons, swelling the total -population to as many as fifteen adults and children. The nearest town, -Herbster, is six miles away. Farther south is the town of Cornucopia, -and to the north, Port Wing. Thirty-five miles off the coast of Lake -Superior stand the Apostle Islands, and beyond, Canada. It is about as -far from Michigan Avenue as you can get. - -This new habitat which I grasped so impulsively provided a kind of -spiritual nourishment which the city did not offer. And later when I -married Hope, she responded as eagerly as I had to the benign sustenance -of this isolated sanctuary. - -It is not only the natural beauty and quiet remoteness of the locale, -but also the strength that we find in association with our neighbors, -whose simplicity stems not from lack of sophistication, but from the -directness of their relations with the forces of life and nature. - -There is John Roman, who lives in Cornucopia, the tall, thin, master -fisherman of the Northern world. He is gentle, shy, and rather -sensitive, with the courage of one who has been in constant battle -against nature, and the wisdom given only to those who have endured the -privations and troubles and disappointments of life completely on their -own. Now well into his seventies, he fishes a little for pleasure, cuts -pulp to make a few dollars, and spends much of his time listening to -foreign news reports on his short wave radio. - -When he stops by for his glass of tea, he never comes empty handed. -There is always something wrapped in a newspaper to be presented to you -in an off-hand manner, as though to say, Please don’t make a fuss about -this ... just put them in your freezer until you are ready to eat them. -The package, of course, contains trout. When no one else can catch -trout, John Roman can. He knows every lake and river and brook and he -uses nothing but worms to bait his handmade fishing rod and gear. So far -as John is concerned, there isn’t a fish swimming that won’t take a -worm. He has caught trout that weighed fifty pounds, and once he tangled -with a sturgeon that wanted to carry him to the bottom of the lake—and -could have. - -The sturgeon encounter occurred about eight miles from our house on a -lake called Siskwit that is filled with walleyes, bass, some smaller pan -fish, and sturgeon. One morning while fishing alone in his boat, John -thought his hook had caught on a sunken log or rock. He edged the boat -forward slowly, dragging the hook, but nothing gave. He moved the boat -backward. Still no give. Finally John had a feeling that he could reel -up. He could, but only very slowly. Then all at once, the sturgeon came -straight up from the water, looked at John, then dove straight down, and -the boat began to tip and go down, too. John promptly cut the line. He -is a regular Old Man of the Sea, but he found no point, he said, in -trying to land a fish weighing perhaps two hundred pounds. The thing to -do when you are outmatched is cut the line. - -John has met the problems of his own life, but the reports of the world -concern him. The danger of Fascists appearing in the guise of saviors of -democracy worries him. He senses that men are losing their grip on -values and are in for a hard time. But what he cannot understand are the -reasons for moral apathy. If an “ignorant” man in the North woods can -see trouble at hand, is it possible, he wonders, that others do not? - - -Bill Roman is one of John’s sons and the husband of Waino’s only -daughter, Lila. Bill used to run the filling station in Cornucopia. Now -he builds houses. But his real genius lies in his understanding of boats -and the water. He would advise me: “Look at the barometer every morning -before you go out and believe it. If you’re caught in a sudden squall, -slow the motor and head for the nearest shore. Don’t go against the -wind. Stay in the wake of the waves. Don’t buck the rollers and don’t be -proud. Keep calm and get into shore no matter where it might be.” Bill -is known for fabulous skill in getting out of tight squeezes, and his -advice is good enough for me. - -He is also the only man I have known who could properly be described as -innocent. His philosophy of life is built upon an utter incapacity to be -moved by greed or ambition. “Just live,” he keeps saying. “Just live. -Don’t fight it. Don’t compete. If you don’t like what you are doing, -change. Don’t be afraid to change. Live in harmony with what you are and -what you’ve got. Don’t fight your abilities. Use them. I like living and -I like to see others live.” - -Bill tries to get on, so far as possible, without money—and with Bill -that is pretty far. “I try to never think about money,” he says. “When -you start thinking about money, you get upset. It hurts you. That’s why -I like Bark Point, where we can live simply. I got my health, my wife, -my boy. I got my life. I don’t believe in success or failure. I believe -in life. I build for others and do the best I know how. I listen to -music on the radio. I go fishing. Every day I learn something. Books are -hard to come by here, but I have re-read everything we’ve got. And I -love the winters here better than the summers. In the winter we can see -more of our friends and sit and talk. - -“But money is evil. Money and ambition. Money always worries me. I’m -glad I’m without it. I have enough without it. What I want, I can have. -But the secret is to know what to want.” - - -Over the years, we built additions to the house until there were enough -bedrooms for all of us, a sitting room with a magnificent fireplace, and -even a Finnish bathhouse, called a sauna. We enjoy taking steam baths -and have discovered the children do, too. - -Raspberries and blueberries grow by the carload in our field, there are -apples on the trees and Sebago Salmon in our lake. This particular -salmon is a landlocked fish, generally weighing between five and six -pounds and very handsome. His skin is covered with silver crosses, he -has a short, hooked mouth, and his flesh is orange. He is caught by -trolling. - -A few miles from our house are rivers and streams seldom discovered by -tourists. Hence we can catch rainbows weighing four and five pounds and -browns often weighing more. We have lakes where we can catch northerners -weighing twenty, thirty, forty pounds, and walleyes by droves. We can -take you to a lake where you can catch a fish in one minute—not very -big, but a variety of pan fish seldom seen or caught anywhere else. We -can take you to a trout stream where you can fish today, come back next -week, and find your footprints still in the sand, utterly unmolested. - -It is a land of beauty and plenty, but nature is not soft. Sometimes a -Northeaster will blow for five days at a time. Then you can stand at the -window and watch the lake turn into something of monumental ferocity, -driving all human endeavor from the scene. Trees are uprooted, windows -are smashed, telephone wires and power lines are downed. Lightning -slashes, the rumbling of thunder is cataclysmic, and the rain comes. -Often Waino would call and warn of an impending storm and the necessity -of securing the boat with heavy rope. But sometimes it was too late, and -we would have to go out in the teeth of the early storm to do battle, -rushing down the beach in our heavy boots, heads covered with oilskins, -beating against the rising wind whose force took the breath out of you. -But the roaring surf, the lashing rain, the wind tearing at every step, -are tonic to the blood! - -One night while standing at the window watching the hard rain falling on -the Bay, I was suddenly alerted to action by the sight of water rushing -over the embankment which we had just planted with juniper. The torrent -of water washing away the earth was obviously going to carry the young -juniper plants along with it. There was only one thing to do and it had -to be done at once: cut a canal in the path of the onrushing water to -channel the flood in a different direction. - -Hope was napping. I awoke her, and armed with shovels, we pitted -ourselves against the storm. At once we were up to our ankles in mud. -Hope’s boots stuck and, being heavy with child, she was unable to -extricate herself. My tugging only made matters worse and, with shouts -of anguish, we both toppled over into the mud. But no damage was done -and, muddy from head to foot, wallowing in a slough of muck, laughing -and gesturing and shouting commands at each other, we got on with -cutting the canal. It was mean work, but there was something -exhilarating about it all and, when the challenge was successfully met -and we were in by the fire, quietly drinking hot chocolate, a kind of -grave satisfaction in knowing that this was in the nature of things up -here and that we had responded to it as we should. - -Bark Point is a good place for growing children as well as for tired -adults. It is good for children to spend some time in a place where a -phrase such as “know the score” is never heard, where nobody is out to -win first prize, where nobody is being urged continually to do something -and do it better, and where the environment is not a constant assault -upon quietness of the spirit. Children as well as adults need to spend -periods in a non-communicative and non-competitive atmosphere. I am -opposed to all those camps and summer resorts set up to keep the child -engaged in a continuous round of play activities, give the body all it -wants, and pretend that an inner life doesn’t exist. - -At Bark Point, our children can learn something first hand about the -earth, the sky, the water. They plant and watch things grow, build and -watch things form. There is no schedule and no routine, but every day is -a busy day, filled with natural activities that spring from inward -urgings, and the play they engage in is something indigenous to -themselves. - - -Before the lamprey eels decimated the Lake trout, most of the men in the -Bark Point area fished for a living. Years ago, I was told, Bark Point -boasted a school, a town hall, a general store, even a post office. But -now commercial fishing is almost at an end—the fine Lake Superior trout -and whitefish are too scarce. So the bustle of the once thriving fishing -village is gone, along with the anxious watch by those on shore when a -storm comes up. No need for concern now. Let it blow. No one is fishing. - -Almost no one. But the few remain—marvelous, jolly fellows, rich with -earthy humor, strong, dependable, completely individualistic. Every -other morning they take their boats far out in the lake and lift the Pon -Nets. It is dangerous work, and thrilling, too, when from two to three -hundred pounds of whitefish and trout are caught in one haul. - -Nearly everyone is related and most of the children have the same blue -eyes and straw hair. But the children grow up and discover there is -nothing for them to do. Fishing is finished, and about all that is left -is to cut pulp in the woods or become a handy man around one of the -towns. Farming is difficult. The season is so very short and -considerable capital is required to go into farming on any large scale. -Nobody has this kind of money. - -Then, too, the old folk were beginning to hear for the first time a new -theme: the work is too hard. For a time, this filled them with -consternation. But they recognized the sign of the times and even came -to accept it. The young people no longer were interested in working -fifteen and sixteen hours a day as their fathers had. They left their -homes and went to Superior or Duluth or St. Paul or much farther. The -few that remained stayed out of sheer bullheadedness or innate wisdom. -It was an almost deserted place when I found it, and it has remained so -all these years. - -Those who stayed became my friends and their world is one I am proud and -grateful to have entered. I have played cribbage and horseshoes with -them, gone with them on picnics and outings, fished all day and -sometimes late at night. We have eaten, played, and worked together, but -most important to me has been listening to them talk. Their conversation -is direct, searching, and terribly honest. Many of their questions bring -pain, they strike so keenly upon the wrongs in our world. I am used to -answering complicated questions—theirs possess the simplicity that comes -directly from the heart. Those are the unanswerable questions. - -I would often sit with them in dead silence around the fire, five or six -men dressed in rough clothing, their powerful frames relaxed over a -bottle of beer or a glass of tea, each lost in his own thoughts. But -this silence wasn’t heavy—it was an alive silence. And when someone -spoke, it was not to engage in nonsense. Never have I heard commonness -or cheapness enter into their conversation. When they talked, what they -said had meaning. It told something. A cow was sick. An axle from a car -or a truck or a tractor broke. The nets split in two. Soon the herring -season will be upon us. What partnerships will be entered into this -year? The weather is too dry or too rainy. Someone is building a shed or -a house. Someone cut his thigh and needed thirty stitches. Someone needs -help in bringing in his hay. - -In this world that is entirely elemental, each man wrestles with the -direct necessities of living. This is not conducive to small talk, to -worrying about losing a pound or gaining a pound or figuring out where -to spend one’s free time. When there is time for relaxation, the talk -usually turns to old times, fables of the world as it “used to be”—the -giant fish once caught: rainbows weighing fifty pounds, browns weighing -seventy, steelheads by the droves. And behind all of this lies the -constant awareness that Lake Superior is an ocean, never to be trifled -with, never taken for granted. - -The women are strongly built and beautiful, with low, almost sing-song -voices. Their “yes” is a “yah” so sweetly inflected that you want -immediately to imitate it, and can’t. Their simple homes are handsomely -furnished through their own labors. When I dropped in, unexpected, I was -certain to receive a quiet, sincere greeting that put me at ease and -assured me I was no intruder. There would be a glass of tea or coffee -and a thick slice of home-made bread spread with butter and a variety of -jams. Nearly everything in the household was made by hand, all the -clothing, even the shoes. And just about everything outside the -household, too, including the fine boats. - -Even today it is possible to live like a king at Bark Point on fifteen -hundred dollars a year—under one condition: one must learn to endure -loneliness and one must be capable of doing things for himself. - -The people around Bark Point have radios and television sets, -automobiles and tractors and other machines. But the people come first, -the machines second. Bark Point people do not waste time questioning -existence. They laugh and eat and sleep without resorting to pills. They -have learned to renounce and to accept, but there is no room in their -lives for resignation and pessimism. However, they do suspect that the -world outside is mostly populated by madmen, or, as one of my neighbors -said to me, “What do you call dogs that foam at the mouth?” - -When I go to Bark Point, it occurs to me that what the world needs is -more private clubs, more private estates and exclusive residential -areas, more private centers of entertainment, anything that will isolate -the crass from the mainstream of life and let them feed upon themselves. -Anything that will keep them away from the people of Bark Point. - - -The master builder of Bark Point is a seventy-seven year old man named -Matt Leppalla. When one asks Matt a question, his invariable reply is, -“I’ll look of it.” “Look of it” means that he will measure the problem, -work it in his mind, and provide the answer. He lives in a house built -entirely by his own hands. If he needs a tool for a job and no such tool -exists, he invents it. His energy and capacity for sustained work is -amazing for a man of any age. He has built almost everything we possess -at Bark Point. - -A few summers ago, we decided to build a dock to protect our beach and -secure our boat against the fierce Northeaster. So Matt and I took the -boat and set out to look for logs washed up on the shores of Bark Bay. -There was no hesitation on Matt’s part as we hurried from log to log. -“Good,” he would say, “this is cedar. No good, this is poplar. This is -good. This is Norway pine. No good, this is rotten in the middle.” And -so from log to log, Matt in the lead with the canthook on his back and -with me following behind, trying as hard as I could to keep up. - -When the selection had been made, Matt offered to teach me how to tie -the logs so we could tow them over the lake to our shore. It looked -easy, but it required an almost occult knowledge of weights and forces -to determine exactly the right place to tie the rope so the log would -not slip and jam the motor or slam against the side of the boat. -Everything there is to be known about leverage Matt knows, including the -most subtle use of ropes and pulleys for least expense to the human -back. - -The building of the crib for our dock was one of the wonders of the -world, executed with the quickness and sureness of a man who knows and -loves what he is doing. Or if any difficulty arose with material too -stubborn to bend to his thinking, I could virtually see him recast his -thought to fit the situation. - -Matt is slight of build and the eyes behind his spectacles are sparkling -blue. When he first got the glasses, they were not fitted to his -satisfaction, so he improved them by grinding the lenses himself. He -reminds me in many ways of my own father, who had a bit of Matt’s genius -and versatility. When I see Matt work, I seem to see my father again ... -building, planning, dreaming, trying to make something out of nothing. - - -Ervin owns the general store in Herbster. Every week he drives his truck -to Duluth for supplies, carrying with him a frayed, pocket-sized -notebook in which he has written down everything people have asked for. -Once I had a chance to look through this notebook which Ervin treasures -with his life. Only Ervin could possibly know what was written in it. - -Ervin’s capacity for eating is marvelous to behold. While the children -stare at him in petrified wonder, he will put together a sandwich of -cheese, sausage, fish, butter, meat balls, even strips of raw meat. His -capacity for work is equally limitless. He is a powerful man and can -wrestle with bags of cement all day long. But he cannot catch fish! At -least that is his story and his claim to fame in the area: never to have -caught a fish that amounted to anything. I don’t believe a word of it. - -Ervin fights many of the same business battles I have fought with no -capital and extended credit. He worries about it, but the odds are a -challenge to him. You cannot long endure at Bark Point unless you are -capable of meeting challenges. - -In addition to his appalling eating habits, Ervin chews tobacco and is a -horrifying master of the art. He showed our boys the full range of -techniques employed for spitting out of a fast-moving truck, and they -thought it was wonderful. But he has also taught them all about the -bears and deer and foxes and wolves and other wild life that abound in -our forest. He helped me with the plans for our house, with the boat, -with the art of reading a compass, and with the geography of the myriad -lakes and streams hidden throughout the area. Ervin knows everything and -says very little. He is easy to be with, and a solid friendship based -upon mutual respect has grown between us. - -When spring begins to come, something that has been kept buried in our -winter hearts can no longer be suppressed. The children start saying, -“We’ll be leaving for Bark Point soon, won’t we?” One spring day when -the children were on vacation from school, I packed the boys into the -car and we set out for an early visit to our spiritual home. The day of -our arrival was clear and beautiful. The ice had gone out of the Bay and -clumps of snow remained only here and there. New grass was coming up -from the steaming earth. There were pink-flecked clouds in the sky and a -glorious smell everywhere that filled us both with peace and -exhilaration. - -But early the next morning it began to snow, coming down so thick and -fast it was a sight to behold. My exclusively summer experience of the -North Country warned me of nothing. We delighted in the snowy wonderland -seen from the snugness of the house, and bundled up in heavy clothes and -boots to go out and revel in it. - -It snowed all through the night. On the following morning, it seemed to -be coming on stronger than ever. I phoned Ervin—fortunately the -telephone lines were still working. He thought the snow might stop by -evening. - -“How are your supplies?” he said. - -“Still o.k.,” I said. - -“What about fuel?” - -“Waino gave me a supply of wood and brickettes for the stove yesterday.” - -“Have you got enough?” - -“Yes—so far.” - -“Good. As soon as it stops, I’ll be up with the truck.” - -But the snow did not stop. The following day it lay ten feet high and -was still coming. - -Ervin called again. “The roads are closed,” he said. “I can’t get to -you. Can you hold out?” - -“Yes,” I said, “but I’m starting to cut up the furniture for the stove -and I’m worried about the children.” - -“I’ll come up the minute I can get there,” he said, “but I can’t do -nothing about it yet.” - -It snowed for three days and three nights without a letup. I tried to -keep awake, dozing in a chair, never daring to let the fire go out. We -had long since run out of fuel oil, but luckily we had the wood-burning -cook stove. I broke up two tables, all the chairs, and was ruefully -contemplating the wooden dresser. The phone had gone dead and we were -completely isolated. - -It was night, the snow was up to the windows and it was still coming -on—a dark world shot with white flecks dancing and swirling. The whole -thing seemed completely impossible. But it was happening and there was -nothing to do but wait it out. - -We had no milk, but there was water and a small supply of tea and -coffee. There was flour, too, and we made bread ... bread without yeast -or salt. It tasted terrible, but we ate it and laughed about it. I read -or played cribbage with the boys. They played with their fishing reels, -oiled them, took them apart, put them back together, took them apart -again. We waited. - -The morning the snow stopped we were greeted by bright sunlight hot on -the window panes. Everyone jumped up and down and yelled, “Yay!” - -But how to get out of the house? We were snowed in completely. - -About noon, Ervin called. The lines were fixed and Bill Lloma was -working like crazy with his tractor opening the Bark Bay Road. Everyone -had been alerted to our plight and help would be on the way. - -Several more hours passed. We were without food or fuel, and I still -hated the idea of chopping up that dresser. Then all at once our savior -was in sight: Ervin in his truck, way down the main road and still -unable to get anywhere near our driveway. - -There was no restraining the children in their excitement. The yelling -and shouting was enough to waken the dead. I found myself laughing and -yelling, too, and waving madly to Ervin. We were all behaving as though -we were going to a picnic instead of getting out of a frightful jam. - -Finally Bill came lumbering up the road with his snow plow and in -fifteen minutes cut a huge pathway to the house. We came out and danced -around Ervin’s truck as it backed slowly into the driveway. - -“Where’s your car?” Ervin asked. - -We had to look around—it was completely buried. I had even forgotten I -had it. Working together, we cleared the snow away. I tried starting the -motor, but nothing happened. Ervin attached a chain to the car and -pulled it up the road. This time the motor turned over, but so suddenly -(and my reflexes were so slow) that, before I knew it, the car had -swerved off the wet road into a ditch. I was fit to be tied. - -Getting the car onto the road from the muddy embankment took an hour. -Finally it was done and all was well. We retired to the house and made a -feast of the supplies Ervin had brought, eating as though we were never -likely to see food again, building Ervin-style sandwiches and consuming -them with Ervin gusto. Occasionally Ervin would cast around and say -something droll about the absence of chairs and having to sit on the -edge of a dresser. Everything seemed hilariously funny. It was the best -party I ever had. - - -When June arrives, we organize our caravan and steal away in the early -hours of the morning: six children, the maid, two cats, three birds, two -Golden Retrievers, Hope and I and all the luggage, packed into a station -wagon. Gypsies have to get out of town while the city sleeps. - -At first our spirits are high. The babies, Amy and Lisa, play or sit -quietly. Then restlessness sets in. David and Jonathan become fidgety. -David playfully slaps Jonathan, and the battle begins. I lose my temper -and bawl at both of them. Then Lisa gets tired and tries to sleep on -Hope and Amy and me in the front seat. Now Susan wants some water, and -David calls out from the back of the wagon, “I’m sick.” Amy now wants to -sleep, too, so in the front seat we have: me at the wheel, Lisa, Amy, -Hope, and Big Joe in Hope’s arms. In the center of the car are Susan, -the maid, and the two dogs; in the back, David and Jonathan, the birds -and the cats, and everything that we couldn’t tie on top in the luggage -carrier. - -But we are off! And amid confusion and frayed nerves—and much laughter, -also—we share a secret joy, a gypsy joy, and the knowledge that our -spiritual refuge lies ahead and so many useless cares and dehumanizing -pressures drop farther and farther behind us. - -Bill Roman, who has made an art of living life simply, worries about the -inroads of those who seem determined to despoil what remains of this -crude but civilized outpost, where I have learned so much about what is -truly human. He is concerned about the hunters who come up from the big -cities to slaughter deer and leave them rotting in the fields. They are -only on hand a short while, with their shiny boots and gaudy jackets and -their pockets full of money, but they create nothing but noise and -havoc. When they finally leave, Bark Point repairs the damage, but each -year it is a little worse. In a few more years, Bill fears, Bark Point -could become a resort town like Mercer or Eagle River. If it does, he -says, he’ll move to Canada. - -Personally, I don’t think we can afford to surrender any more -outposts—in our culture and in the remnants of community living that -still center around values that make for human dignity. I still say: Let -the despoilers feed upon one another. Encourage their self-segregation, -away from the mainstream of life. Even give them junk books, if that is -all their feeble moments of introspection can bear. But never, never -surrender. - - - - - 10 - Hope and I - - -It was only after I had been on television and begun receiving letters -from viewers that I realized how seriously interested people are in the -personal lives of others. Curiosity about one’s immediate neighbors is -not intense in a large city. Often you do not see enough of them to get -curious. You see more and know more of public figures than of the person -in the next apartment. Curiosity about people in public life can become -ridiculous when exploited by press agents. But wanting to know more -about someone whom you have become interested in as a public personality -is as sincere and natural as the wish to know more about the lives of -those with whom you have become acquainted in a more personal way. - -Still, it was a surprise to me when people wrote to ask who and what I -was, where and how I lived, and all about my wife and children. A -surprise, but not an affront, for when I receive such letters, I have -exactly the same curiosity about those who write them. I really would -like to know all about them. - -My personal life began on the West Side of Chicago. We lived at 1639 -South Central Park Avenue, a neighborhood of houses and trees and good -back yards. In our back yard we even had a duck pond with a duck in it, -not to mention the flowers and the grass that my father tended so -lovingly. My father was a tool and die maker. He could speak and read -several languages with ease, had a marvelous sense of humor, and revered -greatness. He believed in two things: love and work. He mistrusted those -who did not. - -Although my father died several years ago, my mother is alive, and now -in her late eighties. In the sixty-five years of her life in this -country, she has seldom left the kitchen, yet she knows more about the -human heart, about human weakness and suffering, and about human caring -than I shall ever know. She is gentle and kind, and her adage to me -since childhood has been: Keep out of mischief—as sound a bit of wisdom -concerning conduct as you are likely to find anywhere, not excluding -Spinoza. - -It was an alive neighborhood, populated by people of mixed origin, -although predominantly Jewish. There was plenty of activity on our -street: kids practicing on horns, playing fiddles, playing games—mostly -baseball and peg and stick. Peg and stick may require a bit of -explanation for the present younger generation. To start the game, it is -necessary to steal a broom. This is always done with the confident -expectation that this article is something your mother will never miss. -Cut off the handle, so you have a stick about twenty-two inches long. -Also cut a seven inch peg. Now go out in the street and with your -penknife make a hole in the asphalt. In summer the pitch is tacky, so -this is no problem. Stand by the hole and, using the stick as a bat, -knock the peg down the street. Then mark the hole by putting the stick -in it. Your opponent must now take the peg, wherever it lies, and toss -it toward the stick. The place it falls is marked, and, of course, as -the turns go around, whoever gets the peg closest to the hole wins the -point. - -But most of all there was an awful lot of talking—on the streets, on the -corner by the delicatessen, and among people sitting on their front -porches. Talk ... and lots of laughter. And there were great good times -at home, especially in the evenings when my father told stories of his -sojourn in Europe, or his adventures in America, or his day-to-day -experiences at work. - -I was the youngest child in a family of six children, and my life -revolved around such matters as dogs, reading, and poetry. I had my own -dog, but I also caught every stray dog in the neighborhood, washed and -defleaed it, and anointed it with cologne (causing a great rumpus when -discovered by one of my sisters from whom the cheap scent had been -appropriated). My poetical labors were not properly appreciated by my -sisters, either, who would collapse into gales of laughter when I -interrupted their bathroom sessions of beauty culture to read them my -latest verses. - -My father built me a study in the basement and I set up a program of -studies for myself: chemistry one week, physics the next, then -mathematics, philosophy, etc. It was a wonderful thing until I blew the -place up in the course of my chemical experiments. This ended my career -in the physical sciences. - -One summer I painted our house—a complete exterior paint job utilizing -only a one and one-half inch brush. It took me from June to September, -and finally the neighbors were complaining to my mother about the way -she was working me. They didn’t know that I was in no hurry to finish -the job. It was not only a labor of love so far as the painting went, -but I was spending my time up there in a glory of memorizing poetry and -delivering noble dissertations. - -I was seldom seen without a book, and nobody regarded this as -particularly odd, for the sight of young people reading on the streets, -on their porches, on a favorite bench in Douglas Park was common. It is -not common today. The only wonder is that I never toppled off a curb or -got killed crossing a street—one read as he walked and paid little -attention to the hazards of city living. - -Furthermore, nobody told us, in school or elsewhere, what a child -between the ages of nine and twelve should be reading and what he should -read from twelve to fourteen, etc. We read everything that took our -fancy, whether we understood it or not, from Nick Carter to Kant and -_Penrod and Sam_ to Joyce. And when we became infatuated with some -writer, we stopped barely short of total impersonation. When I read that -Shelley had carried crumbs in his pocket, I started to do likewise and -practically lived on breadcrumbs for days. - -All of us who grew up in the Depression years on the West Side remember -vividly the men out of work and the soup kitchens going on Ogden Avenue; -houses and apartments becoming crowded as married sons and daughters -moved in with their families. People stayed home and listened to the -radio: Wayne King playing sweet music from the Aragon Ballroom and Eddie -Cantor singing that potatoes are cheaper, so now’s the time to fall in -love. - -I went to school with the heels worn off my shoes and sat in class with -my overcoat on because there were two holes in the seat of my pants. -When the teacher asked a question, I would reply with a sermon. I spent -my days fuming ... I hadn’t found myself. One day I encountered the -works of Schopenhauer and felt I had at last arrived at an idea of life -on a highly negative plane. A short time later I presented my whole -schema to a friend, who blew it up completely. - -My formal education was quite diverse. I never went to school without -working to foot the bill and in the course of time did about everything, -it seems, except selling shoes. I was an usher at the Chicago Theatre (a -vast, gaudy temple of entertainment then featuring elaborate stage shows -as well as the latest movies), where I eventually became Chief of -Service. I was an errand boy and a newspaper boy (selling papers on the -corner of Wabash and Van Buren for a dollar a night, seven o’clock to -midnight). I worked in a grocery store, a hardware store, a department -store. I was a bus boy and a dishwasher. I sold men’s clothing, worked -at the University of Chicago, and wrote squibs for a neighborhood -newspaper. I went to Crane Junior College, to the old Lewis Institute, -and attended graduate courses at the University of Chicago. And during -all this, I took courses in every field that captured my imagination or -provoked my curiosity: neurology, philosophy, psychology, literature, -sociology, anthropology, languages (German, especially) ... everything. - -One day, while I was still an undergraduate, a professor whose heart I -had captured through my ability to recite from memory the _Ode to the -West Wind_, took me aside and assured me that if I were to be a teacher -of literature, which he suspected would be my goal in life, a faculty -position in a college or university English department was not likely to -come easily to a man named Brodsky. Frankly, it was his suggestion that -Stuart Brodsky find another last name—at least if he wanted to become an -English teacher. “What name?” I said. “Any other name that seems to -fit,” he replied. - -I took the suggestion up with my sisters. We thought Brent might do -nicely. Then I asked my father for his opinion. He told me that no -matter what I did with my name, I would still be his son and be loved no -less. It was settled. At the age of nineteen, my name was legally -changed to Brent. - -Brent or Brodsky, I taught incipient teachers at the Chicago Teachers -College. Then I lectured on Literary Ideas at the University of -Chicago’s downtown division. The world took a nasty turn and I left -teaching to enter the Armed Forces. I spent twenty-seven months in the -army, becoming a Master Sergeant in charge of military correspondence -under Colonel Jack Van Meter. When a commission was offered me, I asked -for OCS training and got it. But toward graduation time, the prospect of -signing up for two more years as a commissioned officer was too much and -I rejected it. The war was over. I was on my way to the vagaries of -civil life and to becoming a bookseller. - -The Seven Stairs was born, grew, died. I found myself a widower, -endeavoring to maintain my sanity and my household and fighting for -commercial survival on Michigan Avenue. - -One day in 1956 a tall, pretty redhead named Daphne Hersey grew tired of -her job in one of the dress shops on Michigan Avenue and came to work -for me. She was a Junior League girl, but a lot else beside. Before I -knew it, we had three Junior Leaguers working in the shop, and I was -wondering whether the shop was going to be swept away in an aura of -sophistication that was incomprehensible to me. But my respect for -Daphne and her integrity remained limitless. And I had no notion of the -improbable consequences in the offing. - -Nothing is easier than saying hello. The day Hope walked in to chat with -Daphne, the world seemed simple. She and Daphne had attended Westover -together. They had grown up in the same milieu. Daphne introduced Hope -to me. I was three years a widower, absorbed in my problems of family -and business. Hope was a young girl struggling to stay really alive, -teaching at North Shore Country Day School, living in the token -independence of a Near North Side apartment shared with another girl. We -chatted for a moment or two about books, and I sold her a copy of a more -than respectable best-selling novel, _By Love Possessed_. - -Summer was coming. I was intent upon taking my children up to Bark -Point. I would spend a week or ten days with them, leave them there with -the maid and return for two weeks in the city. Then back again to the -Lake. This was my summer routine. But Daphne wanted a vacation, too, and -we were short of help. While we were discussing this dilemma, in walked -Hope. Daphne asked her what she was doing during her vacation from -kindergarten teaching. Nothing. And would she like to work here for -three weeks? Hope accepted. The next day I left for the Lake. When I -returned, Daphne would leave, and by that time Hope would have learned -her way around. Together with our other girl in the shop, we could hold -the fort until Daphne came back. It was as simple as that. - -When, in due time, I returned, Daphne left and Hope and I were thrown -pretty much together. I loved working with her, and she seemed thrilled -with the bookstore. It was a courtship almost unaware, then a falling in -love with all our might. And the probability of a good outcome seemed -almost negligible. - -There _is_ such a thing as “society.” It is not a clique or gilded salon -of arts and letters such as a Lionel Blitzsten might assemble, but an -ingrown family, far more tribal than what is left of Judaism. In point -of fact, the old West Side no longer exists—its children, our family -among them, are scattered to the winds. But the North Shore, beleaguered -perhaps, is still an outpost of the fair families of early -entrepreneurs, a progeny of much grace anchored to indescribable taboos. - -The plain fact is, it calls for an act of consummate heroism to -withstand real hostility from one’s family. It is not only a matter of -the ties of love. It is a matter of who you are, finding and preserving -this “who” ... and you may lose it utterly if you deny your family, just -as you may lose it also by failing to break the bonds of childhood. - -Even when people try to be understanding and decent, they can be tripped -by their vocabulary. In the protective and highly specialized -environment in which Hope was raised, anti-Semitism was as much a matter -of vocabulary as of practical experience. Even the mild jibes of pet -names often involved reference to purported Jewish traits. This -atmosphere is so total that those who breathe it scarcely think about -it. - -This beautiful and vital girl with whom my heart had become so deeply -involved, brilliant and well-educated, loved and admired by family and -friends, could not possibly make the break that our relationship would -call for without the most terrible kind of struggle. Hope’s parents were -dead, but she had an aunt and uncle and a sister and brother. Their -reaction to my impending descent upon their world was one of violent -shock and bitter protest. - -Hope’s relatives were vitally concerned about what she was getting -herself into. As if I wasn’t! I think if they had pointed out to her -that, in addition to being Jewish, I had three small children, that -there was an age difference involved, and that she herself might be -running away from some nameless fear, they would have stood a better -chance of prevailing. But the social impossibility of the case seemed to -be the overwhelming obstacle. - -If it were all really a dreadful error, I could only pray that Hope -might be convinced of it. I was afraid of marriage. I couldn’t afford a -love that was not meant to be. I had to think not only of Hope and me, -but of the children—they couldn’t be subjected to another tragedy. There -mustn’t be a mistake. - -To me, it was a terrible thing to have to remain passive, to ask Hope to -shoulder the whole burden of our relationship. We sought out a -psychoanalyst to help us—one I had never met socially or in a business -way (not easy; I knew nearly all of them on a first name basis) and who, -if at all possible, was not Jewish. I did find such a man and Hope -arranged to see him. He gave her the facts about the risks involved in -marrying me. He also gave assurance that she was neither neurotic nor in -need of analysis. And that threw the whole thing right back to Hope -again. - -Hope left the city to hold counsel with herself. I stayed and did -likewise, on the crossroads of my own experience. We had a hard time of -it ... and love won through, feeding, obviously, on struggle, obstacles, -impossibilities, and growing all the better for it. - -I am sure God was beside me when I married Hope. Since then, everything -I do seems right and good. We do everything together ... my life is -empty when she is gone even for a few days. Hope’s brother and sister -have learned that the “impossible” thing, social acceptance, does not -interest me, but that there are other areas of living equally important. -We are friends. - -Life with love is not without struggle. The struggle is continuous, but -so is our love for each other and our family. With the addition of Amy -Rebecca, Lisa Jane, and Joseph Peter, the Brent children now number six. -It gives us much quiet amusement to hear parents complaining about the -difficulties of raising two or three. Hope is responsible for naming -Joseph Peter, our youngest. “He looks so much like you and your family,” -she said, “I think it would be very wrong if we didn’t name him after -your father.” And so we did. - - - - - 11 - My Affair with the Monster - - -Among the things I have never planned to be, a television performer -ranks pretty high on the list. - -I have already mentioned that the unlikely person who initiated my -relationship with the new Monster of the Age was the wise and kindly Ben -Kartman. Ben by this time had left _Coronet Magazine_ and was free -lancing in editorial and public relations work. I had not seen him for -some months when he came into the shop with a public relations man named -Max Cooper. Except for having heard of instances in which they -purportedly exercised a dangerous power over gossip columnists, I knew -nothing about PR boys. I simply regarded them as suspect. Consequently I -should probably have taken a dim view of the idea they came in to talk -with me about—auditioning for a television program—even if I hadn’t been -opposed on principle to television. - -At the time, it seemed to me that television was the most vicious -technological influence to which humanity had been subjected since the -automobile’s destruction of the art of courtship as well as the meaning -of the home. The novelty of TV had not yet worn off, and it was still a -shock to walk into a living room and see a whole family sitting before -this menacing toy, silent and in semi-darkness, never daring to utter a -word while watching the catsup run in some Western killing. I vowed that -I would never own a piece of apparatus which seemed so obviously -designed to diminish the image of man, enslave his emotions, destroy his -incentive, wreck his curiosity, and contribute to total mental and moral -atrophy. I didn’t think it would be good for the book business, either. - -Ben and Max didn’t sell me on television, but they did make the audition -seem a challenge. What could I do? I had never taken a lesson in acting -or public speaking in my life. When I spoke extemporaneously, I often -rambled. In fact, that was my approach to talking and to teaching. -Sticking to the subject never bothered me ... or breaking the rules; I -didn’t know any of them. I just talked. All I had was a spontaneity -springing from a love of ideas and of people. I laid these cards on the -table as carefully as I could, but Cooper’s only response was, “You are -a raw talent. I’m sure you can make it.” - -Make what? On the morning of the auditions, I arrived at the Civic -Theatre (an adjunct to the Chicago Civic Opera House which at that time -had been taken over as a television studio—this was while Chicago was -still active in the game of creating for the medium) and I was as -nervous as a debutante on the threshold of her debut. A hundred men and -women were standing in the wings, and the fact that I knew some of them -and had sold them books made matters worse. All at once, I knew that I -was at war with them all. I was competing for a role and I had to be -better than the rest. - -We were instructed to come out on the stage at a given signal, peer -toward a camera marked by two red eyes, and talk, sing, dance, or -perform in our fashion for three minutes. By the time my turn came up, I -was ready to fall on my face from sheer nervous exhaustion. The red -lights blinked on, and I began to talk. I talked for three minutes and -was waved off. - -I had had enough lecture experience to feel the incompleteness of such -an experience. No audience, no response, no nothing, just: your three -minutes are up (after all the tension and readiness to go out and -perform). I hurried out of the theatre and back to the store, where I -paced around like a wild beast. I was certain that I had failed. -Everything that I had been building up for seemed cut out from under me, -and I could only talk to people or wrap their packages in a mechanical -daze. - -At five o’clock in the afternoon the spell was broken. Max came in along -with a towering young man of massive build who extended a huge hand -toward me, crying, “Let me be the very first to congratulate you. You -have a television program for the next thirteen weeks!” - -At my total astonishment, he threw back his head and emitted a Tarzan -laugh. I liked him very much, but I could not place him at all. He was -Albert Dekker, an actor who has probably appeared in more Western movies -than any other star and who at that time was acting in a play in -Chicago. He was a friend of Cooper’s and subsequently a friend of mine, -frequently accompanying me to the television studio during the remainder -of his run in Chicago. - -But at that moment I could only sputter and stutter and wheel around as -though preparing for a flying leap, and the next few minutes gave way to -complete pandemonium, as everyone shared in my sudden good fortune. - -The show ran for more than thirteen weeks. It lasted a year. It was -sandwiched between a show about nursing and one about cooking. It was a -fifteen minute slot, but in the course of this time I had to do three -commercials—opening refrigerators and going into the wonders thereof, -selling cosmetics, even houses. It was a mess. During the entire year, -nobody ever evinced any interest in building the show, and when it was -finally cancelled, I was torn between hurt pride and recognition of an -obvious godsend. Now and then I had received a small amount of critical -acclaim, but on the whole, my first venture into television seemed a -disaster, financially as well as spiritually. And I hate failure. - -Well, there was no use apologizing. I had had my chance, a whole year of -it, and I didn’t make the grade. The poor time slot, the overloading of -commercials were no excuse. I could lick my wounds and say, “Nothing -lasts forever. Television is television. They squeeze you out and throw -you out.” But in my heart I knew that the show had never had an audience -because it was not good enough. So it ended in failure, and along with -it, my relations with Max Cooper. - -For two years, I was away from television entirely, except for an -occasional call from Dan Schuffman of WBKB asking me to pinch hit for -someone who was taken ill. Among those for whom I served as proxy was -Tom Duggan, a real good guy who developed considerable local fame by -getting into one scrap after another and finally, after getting into the -biggest scrap of all, practically being deported from Chicago to pursue -the same career in Southern California where he continues to be a -nightly success. - -Although it seemed to me from time to time that glimmerings of -creativity could be detected in the television field, I no longer had -any serious interest in the medium. When, shortly after Hope and I were -married, we gave an autographing party for Walter Schimmer, a local TV -and radio producer who had written a book called, _What Have You Done -for Me Lately?_, the TV relationship was incidental to the objective of -boosting a Chicago writer. One of the guests at the party was the -station chief of WBKB, Sterling (Red) Quinlan. I had previously met him -only casually and was surprised to be drawn into a literary conversation -with him, during which he told me that he was working on a book, to be -called, _The Merger_. The next day, he sent me the manuscript to read -and I found it most interesting, particularly as it dealt with a phase -in the development of the broadcasting industry, about which Quinlan, as -an American Broadcasting Company vice president, obviously knew a great -deal. This was a period during which any number of novels with a -background of Big Business were being published. I thought Quinlan had -done an unusually honest job with it and wrote him a note to this effect -when I returned the manuscript. - -Several weeks later, I received a phone call from Quinlan which sounded -quite different from the tough-minded executive of my superficial -acquaintance. “What’s wrong with my book?” he said. “No one wants to -publish it.” He really wanted to know where he had gone wrong. - -I tried to explain the vagaries of publishing and of publishers’ tastes -and how it was a matter of timing and placement with certain publishers -who publish certain types of things. But I could see this made little -sense to Quinlan, because there is really not much sense _in_ it. -Finally I said, “Look, send the book over. You need a front runner. -Maybe I can break down a door for you.” I’m sure he didn’t believe me, -but he sent the book over anyway. - -I sent the manuscript to Ken McCormick, editor-in-chief at Doubleday, -after phoning to tell him about it, and as luck would have it, Ken liked -the book and made an offer. I’m sure Quinlan thought I was some kind of -wizard, and of course I was delighted to have been able to help. - -With Red’s book in the process of being published, I turned my mind to -other matters—mostly the sheer joy of living. Business was strong, Hope -and I were enjoying the best of good times, we were soon to have a -child, we were floating on a cloud and wanted no interference from -anything. I avoided phone calls and invitations and put away all -thoughts of becoming anything in the public eye. I just wanted to be a -good bookseller, earn a living, spend time with my family, and leave the -world alone. - -It was in this frame of mind that I received a call one day from Quinlan -asking me to join him for lunch at the Tavern Club (a businessmen’s -luncheon club located near the WBKB studios). I was interested in Red’s -literary ambitions and was glad to accept. - -Red Quinlan is more than a typical example of a “pulled up by my own -boot straps” success story. He is a fairly tall man with reddish hair, a -white, smooth face, and blue eyes that can change from pure murder to -the softness that only Irish eyes can take on. He knows every way to -survive the jungle and moves with the slightly spread foot and duck walk -of a man treading a world built on sand. One part of his mind deals only -with business; the other part is dedicated to a sensitive appreciation -of the written word and a consuming desire to write a good book. At the -beginning he may have wanted to make the best seller list, but his -concern is now with truth and craftsmanship and with what it means to be -a writer. He is a fascinating man who has done much for me. - -Two other men joined us for lunch at the club. One was a heavy-set man -of Greek descent named Peter DeMet who controlled large interests in the -television world. The other was Matt Veracker, general manager of WBKB. -We ate a good lunch and talked in generalities until Quinlan asked me if -I had read any good books lately. I had just finished a collection of -short stories by Albert Camus and was particularly taken by a piece -called, “Artist at Work.” As I told the story, DeMet seemed suddenly -very interested. But the conversation went no further. We shook hands -all around and broke up. - -Less than an hour later, Quinlan called me at the shop and asked me to -come right over to his office. I could tell as I walked in that -something was on the fire. Red came around the desk and sat down with me -on the couch. “Stuart,” he said, “we have an open half hour following a -new science show that the University of Chicago is sponsoring. How would -you like to have it?” This was in 1958 when astro-physics had burst upon -the public consciousness. Hence the science show. - -“I’ve even thought of the name for your show,” Quinlan continued. “Books -and Brent.” - -I still remained silent, caught in an enormous conflict. I _did_ want -the show ... to prove something to myself. But at the same time I didn’t -want to be bothered, I didn’t want to get caught up in the hours of -study the job entailed. And I no longer needed the money or a listing in -the local TV guides to bolster my ego. Yet I wanted the chance again. - -Red noted my hesitation and, although slightly nettled by my lack of -enthusiasm, recognized that I was not giving him a come-on. He went to -the phone and said, “Ask Dan Schuffman to step in here.” - -Danny took over the argument. The price was set, with promise of a raise -within twelve weeks. The show would run from September through June, no -cancellation clause, no commercials sandwiched in to break up the -continuity of my presentation. I had complete control over the choice of -books and what I would say about them. Everything was settled. Now all I -had to do was tell Hope! - -It wasn’t easy. Hope knew something was on my mind and refrained from -asking about it until the children were in bed. Then I told my story. It -would be five days a week at the frightening hour of eight o’clock in -the morning. Hope took the whole thing in and accepted the situation. -But we both had strong misgivings. - -I went to work. Each book had to be read and pondered the night before I -reviewed it. Asking myself of each volume what in essence it was really -about, what meanings and values it pointed to, was the crux of the -matter and a most difficult undertaking. Every morning I delivered my -presentation and then ran to the bookstore. I came home at six, had -dinner, and started preparing for the next morning. It was impossible to -entertain or to see friends, and I was half dead from lack of sleep. -Finally, to lessen the strain of five shows a week, Red suggested that -Hope appear with me on the Friday shows for a question and answer -session, cutting the formal reviews to four a week. Again it took some -persuading—Hope would have nothing to do with it unless she “looked” -right, “sounded” right, and could offer questions that were sincere and -significant. She did all of these things superbly and for the next three -years appeared with me every Friday. - -Still, it was a grueling task. I wanted to give the very best I could -each day, and I felt that I was being drained. But what was really -killing my drive was the suspicion that I was working in a vacuum. After -all, who could be viewing my dissertations on the problems of man and -the universe at eight in the morning? I decided it would probably be -appreciated all around if I quit like a gentleman. So one morning, after -about eight weeks of giving my all to what I judged to be a totally -imaginary audience, I interrupted whatever I was talking about and said, -“You know, I don’t think anyone is watching this program. I’m very tired -of peering into two red eyes and talking books just for the sake of -talking. I believe I’ll quit.” - -What I really meant to say, of course, was, “If anyone is watching, -won’t he please drop me a note and say so.” But it didn’t come out that -way. I walked out of the studio thinking it was all over. - -To my great astonishment, Quinlan soon reached me by phone at the shop, -saying, “What are you trying to do? Get me killed? The phone has been -ringing here all morning with people demanding to know why I’m firing -you! Did you say that on the air?” - -I hastened to explain and told him what I did say. The following day -hundreds of letters arrived. I suddenly realized that I had an audience. - -Hope and I were thrilled and went to work with renewed vigor. The mail -continued to grow. At eight a.m. people were viewing and listening and, -of all things, writing to me—not only housewives, but also teachers, -librarians, doctors, lawyers, occasional ministers. Newspaper columnists -became interested and reviews were flattering to a point where I was -afraid I might begin to take myself seriously. - -Another thing was also happening. Although I never mentioned on the air -that I had a bookstore, people began to call the store asking for books -I had reviewed. Other bookstores found that Books and Brent was -stimulating their business, and some of them, particularly in outlying -areas, took it upon themselves to write notes to the publishers about -what was happening. I began to wonder if what the book business needed -generally wasn’t a coast to coast TV bookshow. - -Not long after these thoughts had formed in my mind, Pete DeMet asked me -to come and see him at the hotel where he was staying. When I arrived, I -found his room filled with men ... some kind of important meeting was -just breaking up. Finally they dispersed and I was able to sit down with -Pete. He told me he wanted to create a TV book of the month show, which -he was ready to back to the hilt. He would investigate the possibility -of getting the major publishers to pay for some of the time—the rest -would be sold to other sponsors. Apparently he and his organization had -the genius required to market such a thing. In any event, his gospel was -“success” and he evidently saw in me another way to be successful. - -I always had mixed reactions to this powerful, heavy-faced man with his -white silk shirts and his, to me, mysterious world of promotional -enterprise. He had been in the automobile business and subsequently -acquired ownership of successful network shows, particularly in the -sports field, and no one seemed to doubt that he could do anything he -set his mind to. - -He was always forthright in his relations with me. He boasted that he -had never read a book and never intended to, but he saw in my work a -vision of something he wanted to be part of. But he also insisted: “If I -take you on, I own you.” - -Contracts were being drawn up, but Hope and I decided that although the -amount of money being offered me—$130,000 for nine months of work—seemed -extraordinary, the only thing to do was to turn the offer down. - -So I went to see Pete and told him the deal was off. The money was -wonderful, but so was my marriage, my personal life. I couldn’t see -myself catching a plane to the West Coast on a moment’s notice, only to -be told that I was heading for the East Coast the following week. There -might be some excitement in such a frenetic pace, but I was getting too -old for that sort of thing, and I didn’t need the pace and the noise to -persuade me that I was living. - -My would-be benefactor looked at me as though I had gone out of my mind, -but he let me go without any further badgering. - -By this time I had become more than a little intrigued with the Frank -Buck approach to capturing live talent. On the next occasion DeMet -pressed me to sign the contract, he assured me that I wasn’t nearly as -good or important as I thought I was. They were not at all certain, he -said, of my “acceptance” in various markets, and furthermore there was -threat now of replacing me altogether: some people felt that a Clifton -Fadiman or a Vincent Price with a “ready-made” or “built-in” audience -would be distinctly preferable to someone completely unknown outside of -Chicago. It would take a lot of adroit PR work to build up the ratings -for an unknown. - -I couldn’t contradict him, and happily I did not feel smart-alecky -enough to tell him, “Go ahead and get those fellows if you think they -can bring a book to life better than I can.” I simply refused to sign -without the consent of my wife. - -That night I was in the midst of reporting the day’s events to Hope when -the phone rang. Hope answered. It was for me: Pete saying, “Can I come -over? I _must_ see you now.” - -A half hour later Pete was with us, going through the entire proposition -and concluding by saying, “You’ll do everything I tell you to do, and -you’ll make a fortune. We’ll all make money.” - -Hope looked Mr. DeMet squarely in the eyes and said, “Money isn’t the -God of this household and at the moment I can’t say I enjoy being here -with you.” - -In the stunned silence that followed, I was seized with a feeling of -terrible embarrassment over our attacking Pete DeMet on a level so -totally removed from his frame of reference or the very principles of -his existence. A few minutes later, Pete got his hat and left. I was -sure the whole thing was finished. - -As it happened, it was just the beginning. One of our best friends, in -or out of television, was the late Beuhlah Zackary, producer of “Kukla, -Fran and Ollie” and as fine a spirit as I have ever known. She used to -say to me, “If I can only discover exactly what makes you tick, I’ll -make you a household name throughout the nation.” Had she lived, I’m -convinced she would have done it. In any event, it was Beuhlah at this -point who saw merit lurking somewhere beneath the high pressure and -convinced Hope and me that we should explore the matter further. Finally -we consented to go ahead, provided Jack Pritzker act as our attorney and -read every line of every paper (including the dotting of i’s and the -crossing of t’s) before it was signed. Things were agreed upon to -everyone’s satisfaction, and I was in the Pete DeMet organization. - -I had confided in Hardwick Moseley at Houghton Mifflin about the -enterprise and he wrote to me (in March of 1959): “I do hope the DeMet -deal on Books and Brent goes through and that you get your rightful -share of the plunder. You know I always expected something like this. I -am delighted that it is happening so soon. When you get time why not let -me know a little of the detail. If we can get you on in the high grass -and a variety of stations everywhere it will be the best thing that has -happened to the book business in years because you do sell books.” - -It seemed a long time since Hardwick had lifted me from the depths by -writing me that I _had_ to remain a bookseller, no matter what. - -But everything fell through from the very beginning. The money Pete -hoped to raise from the publishing industry failed to materialize at -all. Television does not sell books, the publishers chorused. From my -end, I was assailed by doubts because I was never invited to present the -proposition to the publishers with whom I was most intimately -acquainted. From Pete’s end, there was anger and frustration when the -industry would not buy something which he was convinced might prove -their economic salvation. He decided to look for other markets. - -Production was scheduled to start in September. But by this time other -things had taken precedence over Books and Brent. Pete entered into a -real estate promotion to develop a kind of Disney wonderland in New York -called Freedom Land. His lawyer, Milt Raynor, wrote to me in flattering -terms about myself and the book project, but indicated that for the time -being the undertaking would have to be shelved. - -It was a letdown. But the irony of the thing was that a promotional -genius like Pete could be so fascinated by the publishing field and what -might be done for it, and then so totally discouraged by the supineness, -invincible ignorance, and general reluctance of an enormous, potentially -very profitable industry to take even modest advantage of the only -advertising medium that might bring it before the public. Pete found -only one publisher actively encouraging. The rest were negative. - -This was the idea they were offered: I was to review, on a network show, -books selected by myself from the lists of all publishers. In our -experience in Chicago, although I rarely, if ever, suggested that anyone -rush down to his neighborhood bookstore (if any) and buy the book in -question, every bookstore in the area felt the impact of my lectures. -The instances in which my own store sold hundreds of books in a week -because of a review I had given were fantastic—and more frequently than -not the very large downtown stores considerably outsold my own shop on -the same volume, for I was not engaged in self-advertising. This is -something unique in our day, but not in publishing experience, for -Alexander Woollcott used to have the same effect through his radio -broadcasts. He was, of course, a national figure ... but not in a -popular sense until he went on the radio. Publishers were aware of all -this, but they were not convinced. - -Pete was convinced. He believed in me because he saw the results of the -job I was doing in a very difficult city and saw no obstacle to doing at -least as much in other cities. He was an entrepreneur, but perfectly -willing to try the idea of wedding television to culture. Actually, I -was never a party to any of the planning, any of the strategy, any of -the meetings held with publishers or their representatives. To this day, -I know nothing of what actually went on. I was just the talent, and all -I knew was that there was a clause in the contract that required Pete to -put the show on the road no later than September 30, 1959, or else I was -free to return to my local television commitments. The option was not -picked up, and that was that. - -As I mulled the whole thing over at Bark Point, a comment of my father’s -kept running through my mind: “When is a man a man? Only when he can -stand up to his bad luck.” - -Of course, there was no saying whether the luck was really bad—only that -what I envisioned for the future was certainly being held in abeyance. I -came back for another year of Chicago television, much like the year -before, except for the feeling that I was bringing more experience to -it. - -It was the letters that kept me persuaded I was right. In spite of the -hour, with wives kissing husbands off to work and mothers frantically -preparing breakfast and dressing children for school, people were -listening and, in increasing number, writing. Greater numbers of people -were searching for answers to forgotten questions, or driven, perhaps, -back to fundamental questions and to restating them. Hope and I found -all this mail a tremendous stimulus. We returned to our city routine. -Every evening I came home from the bookstore, had dinner, played or -talked with the children, then sat down to read, while Hope read or -knitted or mended or listened to music. At midnight we took a short walk -to the corner drugstore with Mr. Toast, our Golden Retriever, and had a -cup of hot chocolate. These moments were the best of the whole day. - -Getting to the studio in the morning was never easy, and on Fridays when -we made the mad rush together it was more than usually frantic. Hope is -not easy to awaken and would be engaged, more often than not, as we -raced across the street like maniacs toward our parked car, in the final -acts of dressing, zipping up her skirt, straightening her hair, trying -to find her lipstick. Sometimes we barely made it ahead of the -cancellation period—five minutes before showtime, but we always managed. -Then when the ordeal was over, it was perfectly delicious to go out for -coffee, swearing solemnly, absolutely, never again would we oversleep -... until the next time. - -But why were we doing it? The financial rewards for an unsponsored, -sustaining program simply bore no relation whatever to the effort -involved. Finally Quinlan called me in and suggested that since the -networks didn’t seem interested, it might be a good idea to form an -organization and see if I couldn’t sell the show myself. - -Hy Abrams, my lawyer and tennis partner, and his brother-in-law, David -Linn, often used to ask why I didn’t do anything about promoting the -show, to which my answer normally was: “Do what?” But now, with Red’s -insistence, I had a feeling that perhaps the time was ripe. Perhaps in -the present era of political, economic, and spiritual confusion, people -might be becoming worried, harassed, clipped, chipped, agonized enough -for a return to reading. They might be susceptible. - -David was all for it, and we called a meeting, bringing together, as I -recall, Ira Blitzsten, Sidney Morris, Adolph Werthheimer, and my -brother-in-law, Milton Gilbert. I made the presentation, outlining not -only the prospect but also the likelihood of absolute failure. Together -we created the Stuart Brent Enterprises and hired a man to run the show. -Again the idea was to sell the thing to the publishing industry. The -project hardly got off the ground, yet our case seemed an extremely -sound one. - -To begin with, we surveyed a thousand letters that had been written to -the Books and Brent show. A summary of the survey showed: - - Of the 1000 letters read, 705 or 70.5% had bought one or more - books due to Stuart’s review. Some writers had bought as many as - ten books. Many listed the books bought and several enclosed - sales slips. - - Of the 1000 letters read, 107 or 10.7% planned to buy in the - near future. Many of these pointed out the difficulties of - buying books in the suburbs, where there are few bookstores. - - Of the 1000 letters read, 188 or 18.8% wrote “keep up the good - work” type of letters. There were requests for book lists, - particularly from librarians. A number suggested starting a book - club. - - Libraries, bookstores, and publishers were represented. The - letters showed a good cross section of the community, both - economically and age-wise. - -David Lande, of Brason Associates, a distributing agency for publishers, -helped the cause by writing to Mac Albert, of Simon and Schuster, a -letter that said: “While this may not be news to you, I thought you -might be interested in knowing that the Stuart Brent book review program -has caught on like ‘wildfire’ in this area. Our personal experience has -been that Stuart Brent has made more best sellers than Jack Paar. If -this is good information for you, use it—if not, we’re still good -friends.” - -I went to New York and had an opportunity to talk with Mr. Simon, of -Simon and Schuster, along with other editors, publishers, and -booksellers. Mr. Simon said, “I like you because you are not interested -in the I.Q. of man, but in his C.Q.” - -“What, sir,” I said, “is the C.Q.?” - -“His cultural quotient,” he replied. Then he said: “The book business is -exploding. We have a lot of new schools, a lot of new libraries. So long -as we believe that a child must attend school until eighteen years of -age, we will need a great many textbooks. People are hungry for a lot of -new things. Books are one way of appeasing that new hunger. No matter -where you go or how small the community, you will usually find a new -library building and new schools. The book business has a new, great -future. We need more good writers to fill the need for books these days. -That’s our problem, finding new writers, good writers.” - -Most of the major New York publishers and some of the smaller ones -bought time on Books and Brent to help initiate its showing on WOR-TV. -The pre-taped half-hour shows made their debut simultaneously in New -York and Los Angeles on September 12, 1960. In the October 26 issue of -_Variety_, the showbusiness weekly, Thyra Samter Winslow said: “The best -of the new live shows is certainly Stuart Brent, who reviews books, and -books only, daily Monday through Friday, on WOR-TV.... His style is -easy, intimate, calm, interesting. Who knows? He may give just the -fillip needed to cause a renaissance of reading by the home girls. And -about time, too!” - -In Chicago, Paul Molloy, the _Sun-Times_ columnist, who had followed -this apparent breakthrough with great enthusiasm, commented on the -record of 2,700 letters received during the first four weeks of the -broadcasts. “More interesting,” he said, “than the plaudits, however, is -the fact that Brent went out on his own and sold the show because he’s -convinced there’s a market for it. Most broadcasters aren’t, but they’ll -have to come around to it. For 2,700 letters in four weeks is a lot of -reaction. Even The Untouchables doesn’t touch this record. For my part, -I find Brent the most scholarly and at the same time most down to earth -teletalker in Chicago today. I’ve yet to leave one of his shows without -having learned—or at least thought—something.” - -But in spite of all the good sendoffs, TV syndication of Books and Brent -failed to pick up the additional sponsorship necessary to make it a -going concern. Hal Phillips, program director of KHJ-TV in Los Angeles, -wrote: “After much discussion and consideration, we have determined that -we will not be continuing with the ‘Books and Brent’ series after -Friday, December 2, 1960. This in no way reflects upon our feeling of -the top quality and standard of the program. The decision is based upon -the lack of sales potential, etc. We have liked this series and have had -fine viewer response from it and regret that we will have to discontinue -these programs.” - -This time, when my venture crumbled, I did not feel affected too deeply. -I continued with my daily broadcasts from WBKB, fully prepared to accept -their demise also. By this time I had a realistic sense of the pressures -to which this industry is subject, and I knew this was a world in which -I could not afford to get involved. At the end of my third successive -year, the rumors began to circulate. Then Danny Schuffman dropped a hint -at lunch one day. Danny has been carefully schooled in the diplomacy of -the television jungle and unless you were listening with a third ear you -would probably never catch the veiled meaning of the innocent remark. - -After all, while nobody questioned the public service value of the show, -the fact remained that the “rating” was at a standstill and there was -apparently no possibility of getting a sponsor. At the same time that an -estimated 20,000 were viewing me, 46,000 were supposed to be watching -something on another channel, 61,000 on another, and 70,000 on still -another. The competition must be met. The parent company in New York -wants higher ratings. The stockholders want higher profits. Five days a -week is too much exposure anyway. Books and Brent has had it. In a world -about equally divided between those who are scared to death and those -too bored to do anything anyway, the soundness of these operational -judgments can scarcely be questioned. - -When, finally, Red Quinlan got around to telling me all about this, I -knew what was coming and offered no objections. It would have been -inconceivable for us to part except as friends. And my mild, husbandly -trepidation about breaking the news to Hope proved utterly groundless. -She was simply delighted. - -During the last weeks of my daily broadcasts, I planned every show with -the greatest care and instead of reviewing new and popular fiction and -non-fiction, I chose the most profound works that I felt capable of -dealing with. In succession, I talked on Mann’s _The Magic Mountain_, -Proust’s _Remembrance of Things Past_, Joyce’s _Ulysses_, Kafka’s _The -Trial_, Camus’ _The Stranger_, Galsworthy’s short story, _Quality_, -Northrop’s _Philosophical Anthropology_, Hemingway’s _The Old Man and -the Sea_, _Hamlet_, _Job_, _Faust_, and _Peer Gynt_, Fromm’s _The Art of -Loving_, Erickson’s _Childhood and Society_, Huxley’s _Brave New World_, -Dostoevski’s _Crime and Punishment_; _Four Modern American Writers_, and -Stendahl’s _The Red and the Black_. It was a pretty wild course in -Western literature and the results were astounding, not only in viewer -response, but also in the run on these books experienced by bookstores -throughout the city and the suburbs. - -Demand was particularly sensational for Father du Chardin’s _The -Phenomena of Man_, also included in this series. A check of bookstores -in the area showed sales or orders of approximately 900 copies in a -single day. Over 2300 copies of this one title were sold in less than -one month. Our shop sold almost 600 copies. A. C. McClurg’s reported: -“We had 375 copies of _Phenomena of Man_ on hand before Brent’s review. -By 3:30 that afternoon we sold them all and wired Harper and Brothers -for 500 more.” McClurg’s had moved only 150 copies of the book during -the previous five months. - -When I reviewed _The Red and the Black_, we had only ten copies in stock -at the shop (in the Modern Library edition) and sold them out -immediately. We tried picking up more from McClurg’s, but they too were -sold out. I then called one of the large department store book sections -to see how they were doing. The clerk who answered the phone said, “No, -we don’t have a copy in stock. We’re all sold out.” - -“Was there a run on the book?” I said. - -“Yes, as a matter of fact there was.” - -“Can you tell me the reason?” - -“Yes, you see they’ve just made a movie out of the book.” - -He almost had me persuaded until I checked the theatres. There was no -such movie—not playing Chicago, anyway. - -Since I continually counseled men and women to accept life, to live it, -to change themselves if necessary, but never to turn against creation or -to abandon love and hope, never to fall for the machine or the -corporation or to look for Father in their stocks and bonds, I was -hardly in a position—even armed with the facts and figures—to try to -fight the organization for the saving of Books and Brent. I did, -however, two weeks before the series ended, take the audience into my -confidence and explain the situation as fairly as I could. Mr. Quinlan -had my talk monitored and agreed that I handled the matter with -sincerity and truthfulness. There was nothing Red could do—he was tied -to an organization that was too impersonal to respond to the concerns of -a mere 20,000 people. We understood each other perfectly on this score. - -But what happened after my announcement was something neither of us ever -expected, even though we knew there were some people out there who -bought books and wrote heartwarming letters. Phone calls began coming -into the studio by the hundreds, letters by the thousands. One late -afternoon, Red called me and said, “I knew you were good, but not that -good. I just got a call from the asylum at Manteno protesting your -cancellation. Even the madmen like you.” We both laughed but we were -touched, too. - -Letters, telegrams, and even long distance phone calls began to plague -the chairman of the board in New York City. Letters by the score were -sent to Mr. Minow in Washington. But the most beautiful letters were -those directed to Hope and me, on every kind of paper, written in every -kind of hand, some even in foreign languages. Until this has happened to -you, it is impossible to imagine the feeling. The meaning of a mass -medium strikes you and all at once it seems worthwhile to cope with the -whole shabby machinery if you are able to serve through it. - -Hope and I sat reading every bit of mail late into the night. She said: -“Do you remember telling me what F. Scott Fitzgerald said?” I looked -puzzled. “He said that America is a willingness of the heart,” she -prompted. - -I have indicated that Red Quinlan is a man who knows his business and -his way around in it, and that he is also a man deeply enamored of the -world of letters. He was even less ready than I to call it quits. He -invited me to lunch one day, and after pointing out that, anyway, for -the sake of my health the five-day-a-week grind was too much of a strain -to be continued, he asked, “But how about once a week at a good hour -with a sponsor?” - -I hesitated. The columnists had broken the story of my demise at WBKB. -Another station had shown interest and we had had preliminary talks. But -the fact was, I couldn’t have asked for better treatment than WBKB had -given me. Nobody ever told me what to do or how to slant my program. The -crew on the set could not have been more helpful. I felt at home there. -And while Hope had at first been concerned about the possibility of our -lives being wrecked by the awful demands television exacted, she was now -beginning to worry about the people who wrote in, telling about the -needs that my show somehow ministered to. When Red sold the show on a -weekly basis to Magikist, a leading rug cleaning establishment, there -was really no doubt about my decision. When I met Mr. Gage, the -president of the corporation, he said, “If my ten year old daughter -likes you and my wife likes you, that’s enough for me. I’m sure -everybody will like you. And we’ll try very hard to help you, too.” If -you can just get that kind of sponsor, things become a good deal easier. -But somehow, I do not think the woods are full of them. - -Quinlan’s interest in conveying through television some of the -excitement of the world of books and ideas also resulted in an -interesting experimental program called “Sounding Board,” in which I was -invited to moderate a panel of literary Chicagoans in a monthly two-hour -late-evening discussion on arts and letters. Our regular panel consisted -of Augie Spectorsky, editor of _Playboy Magazine_; Van Allen Bradley, -literary editor of the _Daily News_; Fannie Butcher, literary editor of -the Chicago _Tribune_; Hoke Norris, literary editor of the Chicago -_Sun-Times_; Paul Carroll, then editor of the experimental literary -magazine, _Big Table_; Hugh Duncan, author, and Dr. Daniel Boorstin, -professor of American history at the University of Chicago. They were -fine discussions and we kept them up for six months, but nobody would -pick up the tab. - - -My approach to television performance, being untutored, is probably -quite unorthodox. I do not work from notes. In preparation, I first read -the book, then think about it, seeking connective links and related -meanings. In the actual review of the book, I quite often stray into -asides that assume greater importance than the review itself. - -I never say to myself: this is the theme, this is the middle, this the -end. I say: get into the heart of the book and let your mind distill it, -and, as often happens, enlightening relationships with other books and -ideas may develop. - -I cannot perform in a state of lassitude. Before the cameras, I always -find myself tightening up until the floor manager signals that I’m ON. -For a moment, I am all tenseness, realizing that people are watching me, -but in a few minutes I have forgotten this and am thinking about nothing -but the book and the ideas I am talking about. Now I am carried by the -mood and direction of thought. If I want to stand, I stand; if I want to -sit, I sit; if I want to grimace, I grimace. Nothing is rehearsed or -calculated in advance. All I can do is unfold a train of thought -springing from the study that has preceded performance, and the toll is -heavy. Sometimes after the show, I can barely straighten up, or I may be -utterly dejected over my inability to say all I should have said. Then I -leave the studio, moody and silent. - -I never talk to anyone before a show except my director. He understands -me and knows how easily I’m thrown. It can be a slight movement from the -boom man or a variation in the countdown signal from the floor manager, -something unexpected in the action of a camera man or a slight noise -somewhere in the studio, and I react as though someone threw a glass of -water in my face. Then I am off the track, floundering like a ship -without a rudder. Sometimes I can right myself before the show is ended, -sometimes not. Hence the frequent depression, for I feel that every show -must be the best show possible, that “off” days are not permitted, and -that I can never indulge myself in the attitude of, “Oh well, better one -next time.” When people are watching and listening, you must perform, -and perform your best. - -Often my grammar goes haywire. I know better, but I can become helpless -against the monster known as time. I have to fight time. I cannot -hesitate or make erasures. So I plunge on, hoping that some one -significant thought may emerge clearly—some thought perhaps as vital as -that which animates the pages of _The Phenomena of Man_, calling on us -to recognize the eternal core of faith and courage: Courage to rebel and -faith in the realization of our own being. Courage that takes the self -seriously; faith that is grounded in activity. - - -I hesitate to make any predictions about the future of television, as a -means of communication or as a business. As a business, it must be run -for profit. The argument is not about this point, but about the level of -operation from which such profit shall be sought. From personal -experience, I can say that TV does not have to constitute a blow to life -itself. Perhaps many of us are “mindless in motion” and now sit -“mindlessly motionless” in front of our TV sets. But I take heart in the -certain knowledge that many men and women are not so much concerned with -the camera eye as they are in finding a way back to the inward eye. - - - - - 12 - Life in the Theatre - - -There are even odder ways of life than sitting alone behind a desk in a -little room lined with books waiting for someone to come in and talk -with you, or delivering sermons on literature to the beady red eyes of a -television camera. One of them is the theatre. - -You may recall the scene in Kafka’s _The Trial_ in which K meets the -Court Painter and goes to this innocuous madman’s room, ostensibly to -learn more about the Judge who is to sit at the trial. The room is so -tiny, K has to stand on the bed while the Painter pulls picture after -picture from beneath this lone article of furniture, blows the dust off -them into K’s face, and sells several to him. Although the reader -recognizes from the beginning that it is all a tissue of lies and -deception, K leaves feeling satisfied that at last he has someone on his -side who will put in a “right” word for him. It is evident to what ends -K will now go to bribe, cheat, blackmail, be made a total fool of, in -the hope of getting someone to intervene in his fate. In addition to its -comment upon a culture that would rather surrender identity than face up -to its guilt, the scene is terribly funny, as well as terribly -humiliating. - -It is this scene that always comes to mind when I think of the nightmare -of nonsense I lived through in the course of three weeks in the theatre. -It happened one summer a few years ago when Hope and I had come down -from Bark Point to check on the shop. I was answering a pile of letters -when the phone rang. It was a man I had met sometime before who turned -out to be business manager of a summer stock theatre operating in a -suburb northwest of Chicago. He wondered if I would like to play a lead -opposite Linda Darnell in the Kaufmann and Hart comedy, _The Royal -Family_. The role was that of the theatrical agent, Oscar Wolfe, who -theoretically functioned as a sane balance to a family of zany, -childish, totally mischievous grown-ups (roughly modeled on the -Barrymore clan). - -Hope, who had grown up in Westchester society, admitted that when she -was a girl attending summer theatre it had always been her secret wish -to be a part of it. She thought it might be good fun, even though I had -never acted in my life. So the business manager came over and I signed -the contract, calling for a week of rehearsal and two weeks of -performance. - -Summer theatre around Chicago cannot be classified as an amateur -undertaking, although part of its economics is based on utilizing large -numbers of young people who want the “training” and generally avoiding -the high costs involved in regular theatrical production. But top stars -and personalities are booked, the shows are promoted to the public as -professional offerings and are reviewed as such by the theatrical -critics, and the whole enterprise is regarded as essential to the -vitality of a “living theatre.” The outfit I signed up with was an -established enterprise and, as a matter of fact, is still going. I was -not entirely confident that I could deliver, but I had no doubt that I -was associating myself with people who could. - -The theatre itself was not a refashioned barn or circus tent set-up, but -an actual theatre building, restored from previous incarnations as a -movie and vaudeville house. I arrived on a lovely August morning but -inside the theatre was in total darkness except for some lights on the -stage. I made my way timidly down front where a number of people were -sitting. Several nodded to me, and I nodded back. Presently a tall man -got up on the stage and announced that he was going to direct the play. -He said, however, that Miss Darnell had not yet arrived and, also, that -there were not enough scripts to go around. We would begin with those -who had their parts. - -For the next three days, I sat in the darkness from nine in the morning -until five in the afternoon. No one asked me to read, no one asked me to -rehearse, practically no one talked to me at all. I managed a few words -with Miss Darnell, who was gracious and charming, but I was beginning to -wonder when I would be asked to act. Hope had been working with me on my -lines, but it is one thing to know lines sitting down and quite another -to remember them while trying to act and give them meaning before an -audience. - -I began to suspect that something was haywire. A friend who taught drama -at a nearby college and often took character roles in stock confirmed my -fears by assuring me that this play would never get off the ground. “It -will never open,” he said. - -We were to open on a Monday. It was already Friday and I had been on -stage exactly once and nobody yet knew his part—I least of all. In -addition to my fears, I was beginning to feel slighted. I wondered what -I was doing in this dark, dank place, and what the rest thought they -were doing, including the innumerable young men and women between -sixteen and twenty years of age who were ostensibly developing their -knowledge of the theatre through odd jobs such as wardrobe manager, -program manager, etc. There didn’t seem much to manage and I wasn’t sure -it was really a very healthy environment. By this time, a fair number of -the cast had taken to screaming, which is something I am not used to -among grown-ups for any extended period. I also had my doubts about a -young man who spent most of his offstage moments sweet-talking a -bulldog. I wondered if acting necessarily precluded any kind of -emotional responsibility. - -Saturday night the play preceding us closed. We rehearsed all that -night. Sunday the theatre would be dark, and Monday _The Royal Family_ -was to go on. The Saturday night rehearsal was initially delayed because -one of the principals could not be found. Finally he was located, dead -drunk, in a local tavern. It was now almost one a.m. and not even a -walk-through with script in hand had yet been attempted. Instead the -company was engaged in a welter of screeching, shouting, confusion, and -recriminations. This was sheer, silly nonsense I decided, and went to -see the business manager. I told him I’d be pleased to quit and offered -to pay double my salary to any experienced actor he could get to replace -me. I was at once threatened with a lawsuit. - -At two in the morning, everyone was called on stage by the director, who -made a little speech saying that he was just no longer able to direct -the play, he couldn’t pull it together! At this, Miss Darnell walked off -the stage, saying, “This play will not open on Monday or Tuesday or -ever, unless something is done immediately.” After all, she had a -reputation to uphold. - -Thereupon, the director returned with a further announcement. It so -happened, he said, that a brilliantly gifted young New York director was -“visiting here between important plays” and he had consented to pull the -play together for us! Our gift of Providence then stepped forward and we -began to rehearse. - -When my cue came and I offered my lines, the new director said: “The -Oscar Wolfe part is really just an afterthought. The show will play just -as well without the Wolfe character appearing at all.” - -“Fine,” I said, but pandemonium had already broken loose as the former -director and some of the actors took issue with this new twist. We were -already missing one actor and now this new director wanted to sack me. -Well, I had asked for it, but Miss Darnell and the others persuaded me -to stick with it. The rehearsal continued. - -At five a.m. a halt was called and the treasurer of the theatre asked to -say a few words. Under Equity rules, he reminded us, we were entitled to -overtime for extra rehearsal. He asked us to waive this for the sake of -the play. I waited silently to see what the general reaction would be. -It didn’t take long to find out: Nothing doing, play or no play! I went -along with them on that. What I couldn’t understand was why they put up -with all they did: the filthy little cubicles that served as dressing -rooms, the rats and cockroaches that scudded across the floor, the lack -of any backstage source of drinking water—the whole atmosphere seemed -deliberately designed to make an actor’s life completely insupportable. -And now the management was sulking because the actors didn’t have enough -“love for the theatre” to forgo their pay for overtime. - -At six a.m. it was decided that rehearsal would resume at one o’clock in -the afternoon. As we were about to leave, too tired to care any longer -about anything, the director came up and said he was sure I must have -misunderstood him. He would indeed be sorry if I left the show or if he -had hurt my feelings. What he had really meant to say was that the Oscar -Wolfe part lends credence to the movement and meaning of the play. I was -glad to leave it at that. - -The following afternoon, before evening rehearsals, Hope and I stopped -at a drugstore a few steps from the theatre. There we found Miss Darnell -sitting in a booth sipping a coke. She motioned us over. - -“The play won’t open Monday,” she said. “I’ve made my decision.” - -We agreed wholeheartedly. - -“But have you heard the latest?” - -“No,” we said. - -“The play that follows us in is falling apart, too. An old-time actor in -it, pretty well known for his paranoia, slugged a young actress for a -remark she made and someone else jumped in and put him in the hospital.” - -“What’s next with our show?” I said. “Has a replacement been found for -our drunken friend?” - -“Yes. He’s busy now rehearsing his lines.” - -“This is a world such as I’ve never been in,” I said. “I’ve never seen -anything like it.” - -“Neither have I. Not like this one,” said Linda Darnell. - -On stage, we again worked all night. It was a mess. The director was in -a rage. He scowled, threatened, exhorted. Everybody was going to pieces. -No one talked to anyone. - -On Monday morning, we started at ten, planning to rehearse up to curtain -time. But at five in the afternoon, Miss Darnell told the management she -would not appear, and under her contract they could do nothing but -accept her decision. We went back to work that night and rehearsed until -five in the morning. - -Came Tuesday afternoon and we were back again in our black hole of -Calcutta. By now we were all more than a little hysterical and the -language would have been coarse for a smoker party. Some of the players -were so exhausted they slept standing up. But now the play was finally -getting under way. Zero hour was approaching. The curtain went up and -the show began. - -Opening night was incredible. In scene after scene, lines were dropped, -cues forgotten, and ad libs interjected to a point that it was almost -impossible to stay in character. The actress who claimed she had played -her part as an ancient dowager for the last twenty years (“Everywhere—I -even played it in Australia”) forgot her lines and was utterly beside -herself. She said never had she been subjected to such humiliation. One -actor tripped over her long morning coat and fell on his face. A bit of -a nut anyway, he got up gracefully, muttered some inanities, and tickled -the old dowager under the chin. She reared back, nostrils flaring. All -this time, I was sitting at a piano observing the scene, feeling like a -somnambulist. - -But the play went on, and although it certainly improved during its run, -the relations of the cast did not. Every evening we came in, put on our -make-up, and dressed for our parts without saying a word. One night I -lost a shirt. Another night an actress had her purse stolen. On another -occasion a fist fight broke out between an actor and an actress. -Backstage life went on either in utter silence or in bursts of yelling, -screaming, and hair-pulling. The atmosphere was thick with hostility. -But on stage it was as though nothing outside the world of the play had -ever happened, unless you were close enough to hear names still being -called under the breath. It was crazy. - -Many of us in the cast were asked to appear on television interviews to -promote the show. A good friend of mine, Marty Faye, who has had one of -the longest continuous runs on Chicago TV, asked me to appear on his -late evening broadcast. Since the gossip columnists in the city were -already having a field day over the strife at this well-known summer -playhouse, I told Marty (and his viewing audience) my reaction to the -affair and to what I had seen of the theatre in general. I had no idea I -was exploding such a bombshell. From right and left, I was attacked by -everyone (including the lady who had had such a horrible experience -playing the dowager) as a traitor to the theatre and its great -traditions. By everyone, that is, except Miss Darnell and her leading -man, who agreed that something might be done for actors if the public -knew of the conditions under which they so often work and of the -wretched, tragic life they so frequently have to lead. What a terrible -waste this amounts to! No wonder you have to be virtually insane to -pursue a career in the theatre! - -Herb Lyons, the _Tribune_ columnist, couldn’t stop laughing over lunch -the day I told him my experiences. Irv Kupcinet, the _Sun-Times_ -columnist, however, whose talented daughter was among our struggling -players, failed to see any humor in the situation. But the real payoff -came when checks were distributed after the first week of our -engagement. For the week of rehearsals, I had received the munificent -sum of thirty-five dollars, but my salary for actual performance was to -be two hundred and fifty dollars per week. My check for the first week’s -work was $18.53! What happened to the rest of the money? Well, in the -first place, I had to join the union and pay six months dues. Then I had -to pay the full price for any seats I reserved for friends or relatives -and even for a seat for Hope. Then I paid for the daily pressing of my -suit and the laundering of my shirts and even a hidden fee for the use -of the dressing room. Finally, there was the usual social security and -withholding tax deduction. - -But the whole Kafka nightmare was well worth it. In spite of acquiring -at least one enemy for life and no monetary profit at all, I gained some -friends who take the theatre seriously and in a treacherous business, -are determinedly making headway. In addition, Linda Darnell, a person of -great sweetness, has become a cherished acquaintance. It is not often -one comes out of a nightmare so well. - - - - - 13 - Writing and Publishing - - -I knew she was crazy the moment she entered the room. It was a miserable -November day, snowing and blowing, when a woman with a round face, rosy -from the bitter cold, wearing a long raincoat and a hat trimmed with big -bright cherries burst into the old Seven Stairs and almost ran me into -the fireplace. - -“Are you Mr. Brent?” she cried. She was fat and dumpy and she now took a -deep breath and stood on tiptoe, running the tip of her tongue across -her lips. - -“I am,” I said, backing away behind the desk. - -“Oh, Mr. Brent, a friend of yours sent me. I teach her children at the -Lab school, and she thinks you’re a wonderful man. And now, seeing you, -I think so, too!” She breathed deeply again. “I have a wonderful book, a -divine book, that will change everything ever written for children. You -must be the first to see it. I’ve brought it along.” - -With this, she removed the long raincoat and began peeling off one -sweater after another. I remained behind the desk watching the sweaters -pile up and thinking, if she attacks me I’ll make a break for the stairs -and yell for help. - -Finally she started to undo a safety pin at one shoulder, then at the -other, and then she unbuttoned a belt about her fat waist. These -apparently related to some kind of suspension system beneath her dress, -for she now pulled forth, with the air of a lunatic conjurer, a package -wrapped in silk which she deposited on my desk and began to unwrap ever -so delicately. She did have lovely long fingers. - -As the unwrapping proceeded, her mood changed from hysterical exuberance -to one of command. “Take this cover and hold it,” she directed, her -lower lip thrust out aggressively. I held the cover while she backed off -and unfolded the book, her eyes fixed upon me with a wicked gleam. - -“This book shows something no other book has ever dared to do,” she -said. “It shows the true Christmas Spirit. Look carefully and you’ll see -the new twist. Instead of showing Santa Claus coming down the chimney, I -have shown Santa coming _up_ the chimney! Furthermore I’m prepared to -make you my agent. I’ll work with you day and night. Are you married? -No? I thought not. My dear boy, we’ll make ecstasy together and be -rich!” - -It was a delicate situation. I told her I did not think she should let -the manuscript out of her hands, but in the meantime I would think of -some publisher who might be interested in a new twist about Santa Claus. - -Without another word, she wrapped up the book, pinned it back to her -stomach, strapped the belt about her, piled one sweater on after the -other, put on her hat and raincoat, and backed away like a retreating -animal until she hit the door. Then, still staring at me, she slowly -turned the knob, flung open the door, and fled into the cold November -morning. Her poor soul haunted me for days. - - -Long before I was known to anyone else, I began to be sought out by -people who wanted to write, or had written and wanted to publish, or had -even gone to the futile expense of private publication. There was an -October night when I was nearly frightened out of my wits, while sitting -before the fire at the Seven Stairs, by the sudden appearance of a tall -young man with a black hat pulled far down over one eye and a nervous -tenseness that warned me immediately of a stick-up. His opening remark, -“You’re open rather late,” didn’t help any, either. - -I remained uneasy while he looked around. Finally he bought two records -and a volume of poetry, but he seemed loath to leave. He had a rather -military bearing and handsome, regular features. For some reason, it -struck me that he might have been a submarine captain. Presently he -began talking about poetry and told me he had written a volume that was -privately printed. A few days later he brought in a copy. The verse was -much in the vein of Benton’s _This Is My Beloved_. He wondered if I -would stock a dozen of them on a consignment basis. I agreed. Why not? -When he left, he said cryptically, “You’re the only friend I have.” - -Months passed during which I heard nothing from him. Then one evening I -saw a newspaper picture of my friend aboard a fine looking schooner tied -up at the mouth of the Chicago River. He was sailing to the South Seas -in it. - -He came in a few days later to say goodbye. Of course I had failed to -sell any of the poetry, so he suggested I keep the books until he -returned from his voyage. As we shook hands, he was still tense and -jumpy. A few months later he was dead, shot by a girl he had taken -along. I had just recovered from reading the sensational press accounts -of the tragedy when I received a phone call from the late poet’s uncle, -who said, “I know about your friendship with Jack and would appreciate -it if you would give the reporters an interview as we absolutely refuse -to do so ourselves.” Before I knew it, I was being quoted in the papers -about a man I had scarcely known and a book I couldn’t sell. The girl in -the case got some engagements as an exotic dancer after her release from -a Cuban jail, but the affair did next to nothing for the book. Not even -a murder scandal will sell poetry. - -To everyone who brings me his writing, I protest that I am not an agent. -But often it is hard to turn them away. There was the little gnarled old -man with a few straggly long grey hairs for a beard who came in -clutching a tired, worn briefcase. His story of persecution and cruel -rejection was too much for me. “Let me see your book,” I said. The -soiled, yellow pages were brought out of the case, along with half a -sandwich wrapped in Kleenex, and deposited gently on my desk. The -manuscript was in longhand. It purported to tell the saga of man’s -continual search for personal freedom. - -“How long have you been writing this book?” I said. - -“All my life,” he replied. He had once been a history professor he -assured me. - -“And what do you do now?” - -A kind of cackle came out of him. “I am a presser of pants.” - -“And how did you come to bring this to me?” - -“I watch you on television every morning.” - -“Well,” I said, “I’m no publisher, but leave it with me. I’ll try -reading it over the weekend. When you come back for it, maybe I can tell -you what to do next.” - -Or there was the woman who had written inspirational poetry since she -was ten. She had paid to have one volume of verse printed, and now she -had another. “This volume is for my mother,” she said. “She is very -sick. If I could get it published, I think it would help her. But I -don’t have the money to pay for it.” And her voice trailed away into -other worlds. She worked nights at a large office building. During the -day, when she wasn’t caring for her sick mother, she wrote poetry. - -“May I see it, please?” And now I was stuck. “Leave it with me. I’ll see -what I can do.” Of course I could do nothing. But how could I tell this -fragile, helpless creature that even great poetry is unlikely to sell -two thousand copies? I recalled Dr. Frieda Fromm-Reichmann once saying -to me: “A good analyst must always have a rescue fantasy to offer.” But -I am not an analyst, rabbi, priest, or even a Miss Lonelyhearts. - -A young man, hate and rebellion written terribly across his face, -accosted me unannounced and declared: “I’ve watched you on TV. You sound -like a right guy. Here’s my book. Find me a publisher. Everybody’s a -crook these days, but maybe you’re not. Maybe you believe what you say. -Well, here’s your chance to prove it!” Then he rushed out, leaving the -manuscript behind and me yelling after him, “Hey, wait a minute!” But he -was gone. - -It is not merely the poor and downtrodden or the hopeless nuts who seek -fulfillment through publication. “If you can get my wife’s book -published, I’ll give you ten thousand dollars,” a wealthy customer told -me. Another said, “Get this book published for me and I’ll buy five -thousand copies!” Another, who had certainly made his mark in business -told me, “If I can get published, all my life will not have been lived -in vain.” - -Touching and even terrifying as these thwarted impulses toward -expression may be, virtually every example turns out to be deficient in -two ways: - - 1. It is badly written. - - 2. Its philosophic content is borrowed instead of being distilled from - the writer’s own experience. - -The second error is also a glaring defect in the work of many practicing -and commercially successful novelists. For example: the writer who, in -drawing a neurotic character, simply reproduces the appropriate behavior -patterns as described in psychoanalytic literature. The result may be -letter perfect as to accuracy and tailor-made to fit the requirements of -the situation, but the final product is nothing but an empty shell. - -In any event, a real writer is not just someone with a fierce urge or -dominating fantasy about self-expression. He may well have a demon that -drives him or he may find a way to knowledge out of the depths of -personal frustration. But before all else, he is someone who has a -feeling for the craft of handling the written word and the patience to -try to discipline himself in this craft. The main thing to remember -about a writer is that he makes it his business to put words together on -a sheet of paper. - -Beyond this, he may be any sort of person, of any physique, of any age, -alcoholic or not, paranoid or not, cruel or not, drug addicted or not, -horrible to women and children or not, teach Sunday School or not, -anything you please. He can even engage in any vocation or profession, -as long as he keeps going back to his desk and putting words together. -He can be wealthy or have no money at all, and his personal life can be -perfectly average and uneventful or utterly unbelievable. Just as long -as he really works at words. - -The level of his intention and his art may vary from writing for the -newspapers to plumbing the depths of experience or pursuing some -ultimate vision, but within the range he undertakes, the discipline of -words calls also for the discipline of values, intelligence, emotion, -perception. Writers who are serious about their business know these -things, and the difficulties they present, too well to have to talk -about them. In all my conversations with writers, I can recall few -instances in which anybody ever talked directly about the art of -writing. - -In the case of professional writers, I have acted more often as a -catalyst than as a volunteer agent. For example, I abused as well as -prodded Paul Molloy, the prize-winning columnist of the _Chicago -Sun-Times_, until he turned his hand to a book. The simplicity and -sincerity of his style has an undoubted appeal, as the success of the -book, _And Then There Were Eight_, has proved. I am sure he would have -written it anyway, ultimately, but even a fine talent can use -encouragement. - -I have also found it possible to help another type of writer—the expert -in a special field who is perfectly qualified to write a type of book -that is greatly needed. During the period when my psychiatric book -speciality was at its peak, I became aware of the need for a single -giant book on the whole story of psychiatry. Dr. Franz Alexander, then -Director of the Chicago Institute for Psychoanalysis, was the obvious -choice for such a monumental undertaking. No other great authority was -so widely respected outside his particular field—not only among those in -other “schools” of psychiatric thought, but among workers and scholars -in every area concerned with the human psyche. - -Dr. Alexander was the very first student at the Institute of -Psychoanalysis founded by Freud in Vienna. I loved to listen to Dr. -Alexander reminisce about his relationships with Freud and the original -Seven and especially admired his view of the relationship of modern -psychoanalysis to Spinoza’s philosophy of the emotions. He was one of -the few men I had encountered in this field who had a thorough -background in philosophy. When I broached the idea of a monumental -compendium, embracing the total field of psychiatry and psychoanalysis, -historically and technically, he at first hesitated, then finally -agreed—if the right publisher could be interested and if a fairly large -advance could be obtained to help with the extensive research that would -be involved. - -Shortly thereafter, while on a trip to New York, I had lunch with -Michael Bessie of Harper and Brothers and explained the idea to him. He -was very much taken with it, and within a few weeks all of the details -were worked out to Dr. Alexander’s satisfaction. The work is still in -progress, Dr. Alexander having retired to California to devote the -greater part of his time to its completion. - -Other books which I also managed to place for Chicago analysts were -Irene Josslyn’s _The Happy Child_ and George Mohr’s _Stormy Decade, -Adolescence_. - -But what of the young man or woman who has determined to devote himself -to the difficult craft of writing, who has beaten out a book to his best -ability, and is looking for a publisher? What do you do? - -Well, of course, there is nothing to prevent you from bundling up your -manuscript and mailing it to various publishers. Experience shows, -however, that very few manuscripts submitted “cold” or, in the trade -phrase, “over the transom” (obviously the mailman can’t stick a -manuscript through the letter slot), ever see the light of day. This -doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t carefully consider the piece before -attaching a rejection slip to it. I should say, however, that something -of a very special literary quality—not the self-styled “advance guard” -but the truly different, which has no audience ready-made and hence must -create its own, the kind of literature which you just possibly might -write (and which I think certainly is being written) and that could -change the world through its extension of our resources of feeling and -expression—does not stand too strong a chance of passing through the -literate but patterned screening of publishers’ manuscript readers. -Furthermore, since each publishing house has a character all its own, -the likelihood of any one manuscript ending up in the right place is a -numbers game that can be quite disheartening to play. - -Perhaps the best advice that can be given to the determined author is: -Get a good agent. This is not necessarily easy and there are pitfalls, -including sharks who prey upon the innocent for their own financial -gain. A manuscript that comes into the publisher’s office “cold” stands -a better chance of receiving serious consideration than one sent under -the auspices of a dubious agent. Nevertheless, a manuscript by an -unknown writer usually gets a quicker reading if it comes through a -recognized agent.[2] - -With or without the help of an agent, the task is to try to place the -book with some publisher. This task has become increasingly difficult -unless the book is, by its very nature, a safe bet to sell. Nowadays the -best bets are the so-called “non-books”—books specifically designed for -selling, such as collections of humorous pictures and captions or -volumes whose authors are not only well known in the entertainment -world, but also carry a heavy clot with TV audiences: The Jack Paar -Story, The Zsa Zsa Gabor Story, The Maurice Chevalier Story, The Harpo -Marx Story—they may not all have exactly the same name and they may be -written in greater or lesser part by relatively accomplished hacks, they -may range from the fascinating to the disgusting in content, but they -all exist for the same reason: there is a built-in audience that will -buy them. Frankly, if Books and Brent had ever achieved network status, -I could have done the same thing. - -The problem is not that publishers will buy a sure thing. Of course they -will and, within reason, why shouldn’t they? The problem is that less -and less is being published today that stands a chance of belonging in -the realm of permanent literature. It is easier to get a book like this -published, _about_ books and writers (although not too popular a subject -and therefore a fairly adventurous publishing undertaking), than it is -to get the hard-wrought, significant works of some of the writers I have -mentioned into print. Actually, most of the material that is selected -for publication today is chosen precisely _because_ it is temporary in -value and appeal. Publishing, of course, is a difficult business and -every book, in a sense, is a long shot, more likely to fail than to -succeed in turning a profit. Most publishing houses have been built on -the proposition that the successes must help subsidize the failures, but -that this is the only way that the new and unknown talent, which will -create the future of literature, can be developed. Publishing has never -been like most manufacturing industries, where you can survey a new line -before you try it, and drop it if it doesn’t pay its way. In spite of -all the tons of junk printed since Gutenberg, the glory and prestige of -publishing is linked not with numbers of copies sold but numbers of -enduring works produced. Virtually no one remembers the best sellers of -1900 or even 1950. But the great editors and publishers who nurtured, -say, the talents of the 1920’s have become part of literary history. A -Maxwell Perkins couldn’t exist in an industry that didn’t care what it -was doing or that wouldn’t take its chances. - -Taking a chance seems to be a custom that is going out of -fashion—especially taking a chance on something you believe in. It is -strange that this should be so, especially in business and industry, -where the tax laws tend to encourage judicious failure (“product -research,” etc.) in any enterprise strong enough to be in the fifty-two -percent bracket. Perhaps corporate structure is one of the factors that -tend to close our horizons. A free individual can keep taking his -chances until the world catches up with him. But the officer of a -corporation who is responsible for justifying his actions to the board -(and the board to the banks and the stockholders) does not have much -leeway. - -Both good books and bad books sell (and many books, both good and bad, -fail to sell at all). A good book is, very simply, a revealing book. A -bad book is bad because it is dull. Its author is obviously lying, not -necessarily by purveying misinformation, but because he lards his work -with any information that falls to hand—a sort of narrative treatment of -the encyclopedia. A good book stirs your soul. You find yourself lost, -not in an imaginary world (like the encyclopedia), but in a world where -everything is understood. Readers and editors alike, no matter how -debilitated, can detect this difference. - -So, even, can the reviewers—largely a group of underpaid journalists and -college professors who have a right, if any one does, to have become -weary of letters. A writer friend of mine recently told of waiting at an -airport for a plane that was late. He bought all three of the literary -magazines obtainable from the newsstand and settled down to read. Every -book review seemed to him written by someone who hated literature. He -became utterly disgusted with both the reviews and the reviewers. - -Considering the volume of publishing, how can it be so difficult to get -good new books? There are not enough really significant titles coming -out for me or anyone else to make a decent living selling them (I gave -up trying with the Seven Stairs). When I talked with Mr. Simon, he -assured me that Simon and Schuster and the book industry as a whole were -booming with the mergers and the mushrooming educational market, but -that the big problem was finding good writers and good books. I wonder -if they are going about it properly. Somehow the prize contests and -other subsidies never seem to bring genuine individual talent to the -fore, and while everybody claims to be looking for something fresh, what -gets bought looks suspiciously like the same old package. - -Publishing has so often been (and in many cases, still is) a shoestring -industry, that one gets a momentary lift from seeing it listed today on -the board on Wall Street. But it is an open question whether the -investors are supplying risk money for a cultural renaissance or buying -into a sure thing: the increasing distribution of synthetic culture -through textbooks and the propagation of standard classics and -encyclopedias at cut-rate prices through the supermarkets. - -Anyone who has given his heart and soul to literature and the arts is -likely to regard everyone who pulls the financial strings in the -communications world as a monster. But the commercial outlook on -something like the retail book trade is so dispiriting that the wonder -is anybody pays any attention to it whatever or publishes any books at -all whose distribution depends upon such channels. In Chicago, for -example, a center of about six million people, there are approximately -five major bookstores (excluding religious and school book suppliers). -Compared to this, I am told of a village in Finland of six thousand -people where there are three bookstores doing a fine business! Now in my -own shop I sell books, to be sure, but I also sell greeting cards, art -objects manufactured by or for the Metropolitan Museum, paperbacks, -records, and, at Christmas time, wrappings, ribbons, stickers, and -miniature Santa Clauses. I still got into trouble one day when a woman -came in and couldn’t get a pack of pinochle cards. She thought I had a -lot of nerve advertising books and not selling playing cards. Actually, -“Bookstore” in America has come to mean a kind of minor supplier of -paper goods and notions—and that is exactly what the great number of -“Book Dealers—Retail” listed in the Chicago Redbook in fact are. - -But you _can_ buy a book in Chicago. Try it, however, in most of the -cities across this vast country up to, say, 100,000 population. You’ll -be lucky to find a hardback copy of anything except the current best -sellers. And in spite of the wonders of drug store paperbacks, a culture -can’t live and grow on reprints. - -So let’s face it. In a nation of 185 million people, some of whom are -reasonably literate, a new book that sells ten to twenty thousand copies -is regarded as pretty hot stuff. In an age of the mass market, this -isn’t hot enough to light a candle. - -What to do about it? Well, in the first place, let’s not be complacent -about what’s happening to American culture, to the American psyche. It -isn’t just the money-grubbing, the success-seeking; grubbing and -striving, more or less, are a part of living. It is the emptiness, the -meaninglessness. Nobody can get along without an interior life. The soul -must be fed, or something ugly and anti-human fills the void. Spiritual -nourishment is not a frill, apart from everyday necessity. The everyday -and the ultimate expression of man do not exist apart. Synge remarked: -“When men lose their poetic feeling for ordinary life and cannot write -poetry of ordinary things, their exalted poetry is likely to lose its -strength of exaltation, in the way men cease to build beautiful churches -when they have lost happiness in building shops.” - -In the modern world, good reading offers one of the few means of getting -back to one’s self, of refreshing the spirit, of relating to the inward -life of man. Through reading you can get acquainted all over again with -yourself. You can stand being alone. You will look forward again to -tomorrow. - -Anything that stands in the way of this hope for renewal is an affront -to man and a judgment on our times. - -If the publishing industry has found a helpful new source of income -through the present mania for education, fine. But a few extra years of -education aren’t going to change anybody’s life. If we wait for a -popular growth in “cultural maturity” to justify making more widely -available the sustenance men need, it will come too late. There must be -ways of cutting through the jungles of mass markets and mass media to -reach, in a way that has not previously been possible, the much smaller -but more significant audience of the consciously hungry. For as long as -there are human souls still alive and sentient, there can be good books, -good writers, even booksellers selling books again, paying their bills, -earning a living. - -Meantime, if you must be a writer, write seriously and well. Never pay -for publication of your own book. Take your chances. If you succeed, -fine. If not, then you must either persist in trying, time after time, -or give up. Perhaps the present custodians of culture have their minds -on other matters and do not wish to hear what you have to say. So be it. -You will not be the first. - - - - - 14 - Books and Brent - - -When I began to read, I fell in love with such a consuming passion that -I became a threat to everyone who knew me. Whatever I was reading, I -became: I was the character, Hamlet or Lear; I was the author, Shelley -or Stendhal. When I was seized by sudden quirks, jerks, and strange -gestures, it was not because I was a nervous child—I was being some -character. - -One morning when I awoke, I looked into the mirror and discovered that -one part of my head seemed bigger than the other. I ate my breakfast in -silence with my three sisters gathered about the table watching me. When -I suddenly looked up, I thought I saw them exchanging meaningful -glances. - -“Do you see something strange about me?” I asked. - -They shook their heads and suppressed a giggle. - -My mother, washing dishes at the sink, stopped and looked at me, too. - -“Do you see anything unusual about me?” I said. She didn’t. - -I got up and, standing in the middle of the floor, bent my head to one -side and said, “Look, my head is swelling!” - -My sisters laughed wildly, while my mother cried, “What are we going to -do with this silly boy? What are we going to do?” - -My knowledge, they assured me, was coming out of my head. And I told -them this was not funny at all. - -When I went back to the mirror, I liked my face much better. The -forehead was showing some wrinkles. Lines were appearing at the mouth. -The eyes seemed more in keeping with what might be expected of a thinker -or poet. Before I had begun to read, this face certainly had appeared -more ordinary—just smooth and clean and nothing else. Now that I had -begun to peer a little into the minds of great men, something was -entering my soul that reflected itself in my face. I was sure of it. -Naturally, the idea that filling my head with knowledge might cause it -to burst was nonsense, but I certainly was cramming in an oddly -miscellaneous assortment of facts, dates, events, phrases, words, -snatches of everything. I never read systematically. I read everything, -and I think still that it is simply stupid to tell boys and girls to -read certain books between the ages of nine and twelve, other books -between sixteen and twenty, etc. I got lost in the paradise of books and -it wrecked me forever—destroyed any possibility of my becoming a -“successful” man, saved me from becoming a killer in the jungle of -material ambition. - -I think prescribed reading is the enemy of learning, and today it is -probably the end of culture. As a boy, I devoured all the Sax Rohmer -mysteries, the Rover Boys, the Edgar Rice Burroughs’ _Men of Mars_ and -the Tarzan series; I read _Penrod and Sam_, _Huckleberry Finn_, _Tom -Sawyer_—all with equal enthusiasm. This is where it begins. Taste can -come later. - -There is a certain point, once enthusiasm is engendered, when a good -teacher can open doors for you. I had such a teacher, and later a -friend, in Jesse Feldman. His enthusiasm supported my own, and at the -same time he held the key to the wealth of possibilities that literature -offers. He was a scholar, but his real scholarship resided in his love -for people. He believed ideas could change human hearts. He inspired me -by making me wonder about everything. He showed me that the worst sin of -which I might be capable would be to become indifferent to the human -spirit. - -It was Jesse who introduced me to Jack London’s _Martin Eden_. I was -seventeen. Then _Les Miserables_, _Nana_, and _Anna Karenina_ set me off -like a forest fire. There was no stopping me. I had to read everything. -I plunged into Hardy’s _Return of the Native_ with pencil in hand, -underlining and writing my thoughts in the margins. I loved to argue -with the author and the need to make notations made it terribly -important to own my own books, no matter how long it took to save the -money to buy them. It was fun to look at books, to touch them, to think -of the next purchase. - -I read Dickens until I couldn’t see straight. I read Goethe’s _Faust_ -and thought secretly that the author was a pompous ass. Years later I -again read it and became fascinated with the entire Faustian legend. -This is the way it should be. You don’t have to get it the first time. - -I can remember when I first read _The Brothers Karamazov_ and how it -unnerved me. The book created such fierce anxieties within me that I -couldn’t finish it. I had to wait a number of years before I could -tolerate the strain it put on my nervous system. - -Later Jesse gave me my first introduction to Thomas Mann and Jules -Romain. I read Henry Hudson’s _Green Mansions_ and to this day I can’t -forget Abel and Rima. I read Dreiser’s _Sister Carrie_ and loved his -social criticism, his amazing bitterness, his terrible writing. I -memorized the _Ode to the West Wind_ and began my Shelley imitations, -adopting, among other things, his habit of reading standing up. I read -Galsworthy and wrote long précis of his wonderful short stories. My -reading was for myself, my notebooks were for myself, my thoughts and -ideas were for myself. - -Although I was seldom without a book at any time, the very best time to -read was on Saturday mornings. Normally my mother baked on Friday and -she had a genius for failing to remember that something was in the oven. -So if I was lucky, there would be plenty of cookies or cake or strudel -left, slightly burned, that nobody else would touch. I loved it. Then, -too, the house was strangely still on Saturday mornings. No one was home -and I could turn up the volume on the phonograph as loudly as I wished -and sit and listen and read and eat cake. It was marvelous. - -Sometimes a single vivid line was the reward for days of desultory -reading. I remember first coming across Carlyle’s remark in Heroes and -Hero-Worship, “The Age of Miracles is forever here!” and how I plucked -that phrase and kept repeating it even in my darkest moments. Again, -after finishing _Moby Dick_, a book I took straight to my heart, I began -a research job on Melville and encountered a letter written to Hawthorne -that marked me for life. I was reading at the public library, and as -closing time approached I began to race madly through the books I had -gathered, trying to find something that would tell me what Melville was -like. Suddenly my heart skipped a beat and I knew that I had found it -(child of innocence that I was, bent on researching the whole world, -ancient and modern): “My development,” Melville wrote, “has been all -within a few years past. Until I was twenty-five, I had no development -at all. From my twenty-fifth year I date my life. Three weeks have -scarcely passed, at any time between then and now, that I have not -unfolded within myself.” - -Closing time was called and I went out into the solitary night, walking -thoughtfully home, thinking, thinking, thinking. I didn’t want money or -success or recognition. I didn’t want a single thing from anybody. I -wanted only to be alone, to read, to think ... to unfold. - -One year I’d be interested in literature, the next in philosophy, the -following in physics or chemistry or even neurology. Everything -interested me. Who cared what I ate or how I dressed? I cared only for -the words between covers. I was safe so long as I didn’t fall in love -... this I knew from Schopenhauer. Spengler fascinated me. _The Decline -of the West_ was so brilliantly written, it had a scheme ... and it was -such a fraud. But I was learning how to read and how to think through -what I was reading. I disliked Nietzsche and only later came to see him -as one who was saying in very bald terms: Don’t sell out! Stop wasting -your time predicting the future of mankind, but become an active part in -creating it. - -I had long known the Old Testament, but now I became attracted to the -New Testament and the figure of Jesus. I memorized the Sermon on the -Mount and spent sleepless nights arguing with myself. I went wild over -Tawney’s _The Acquisitive Society_ and Max Weber’s _The Protestant -Ethic_ had a tremendous effect on me and sent me back to reading -Washington, Jefferson, Hamilton, and Benjamin Franklin. I was beginning -to suspect that I was too deeply influenced by European literature and -not enough by American. Why was I drawn to Kafka and Mann and Gide and -Proust and Anatole France and Huysmans and not to Howells and Emerson -and Whitman and Hawthorne and Melville and Thoreau? I set myself a -course of study and luckily started with Hawthorne. Had I started with -Howells, I have a strong notion I’d have given up. But I liked -Hawthorne, and this led to Melville and here I found my God and my -America. His involuted writing was perfect for me and this in turn led -to Henry James. When James made the remark about the gorgeous -wastefulness of living, I knew he was right. In the eyes of the world I -lived in, I was wasting my time. Many of my friends by now had good jobs -selling insurance or automobiles or were on the way to becoming -successful junior executives. And I? Well, I was reading! I always -worked, to be sure, but at odd jobs only. If I went to school during the -day, then I worked at night. If I attended night school, then I worked -during the day. But what the job was made no difference to me. - -Sometimes I did pause to ask myself where this was going to lead. There -was the day I was being interviewed for a job at Woolworth’s and the man -asked, “What do you know?” I started to tell him what I knew about the -various schools of literature and philosophy and he stopped me cold, -saying, “You know too much about the wrong things. We can’t hire you.” -This knocked me out for days. - -What did I want to be? Did I have to become something? Did I have to -have some land of social approval? For a time I went around in a state -of near collapse. First I decided upon medicine as a good practical -profession with a lot of good basic knowledge behind it. Then I felt -that perhaps I should be a lawyer. I was generally regarded as a good -speaker and I had an idea that criminal lawyers were exciting people. -Then I thought possibly I ought to be an architect. But nothing fitted. -Finally I decided. I was going to teach. - -To my shocked amazement, I discovered that all my years spent at -college, all my study, the range of knowledge I had sought to embrace, -meant absolutely nothing in the eyes of the master educators. I was -deficient in what were called Education Courses. There was nothing for -me to do but to take them. - -In all my life in the classroom, I had never encountered such a waste of -time, such stupidity, such a moral outrage! The courses were insipid and -the teachers themselves knew nothing whatever. It was either insane -nonsense or an organized racket from top to bottom: courses on the -theory of education (I had already gotten my theory from Samuel Butler -and George Meredith, neither of whom the educators seemed to have heard -of), courses on educational psychology (something completely occult), -courses on techniques, courses on I.Q. measurements, courses on the art -of choosing a textbook. By the time I had finished my required work in -education, I could not have been less inspired to be a teacher. I had -heard a great deal about the smug middle class and their valueless -world, and have since encountered them and it, but I shall be happy to -exhibit any group of typical specimens of this order as examples of -vibrant living and exciting intellect compared to a meeting of -“educators.” No wonder books are dying! - -In those depression days, it seemed to me that the education world was -something invented to keep some walking zombies busy. But it turned out -that the educators got in on the ground floor of a good thing. With the -present hue and cry for education and more education, their job is cut -out for them: tests and more tests, techniques and more techniques. - -We don’t need more educators; we need more _teachers_. And especially -teachers of literature. Not teachers who are smug in their learning and -want to impose value judgments on others. But teachers who are alive -with love and enthusiasm, whose own experience with art and letters has -made them a little less ashamed to be members of the human race. Not -teachers armed with a book list, but with a personal addiction to -reading as a never ending source of generous delight. Not experts in -testing and guidance, but people with enough faith in youth to inspire -them to find their own way and make their own choices, to taste the -exhilaration of stumbling and bumbling on their own amid all the wonders -and ups and downs of the human quest for understanding. We need teachers -who will stimulate, provoke, and challenge, instead of providing -crutches, short cuts, and easy directions. There is just no point in -building all those new school buildings unless we have more Jesse -Feldmans to fill them with the realization that the aim of education is -to help man become human. - - -I seldom go back to where the Seven Stairs used to be. It is hard to -visualize it as it once was. The old brownstone has a new face, the -front bricked up and the door bolted. Business is good on the Avenue, -but many of the people who come in seem tight-lipped and hurried. The -Seven Stairs is not there either. - -But when we start looking up old places, it means we have forgotten them -as symbols. The Seven Stairs was an adventure of the heart ... a -personal search for the Holy Grail, a quest that still continues. Each -step up the stairs has brought crisis and someone to help me overcome -that crisis and move on to the next. And seven being an enchanted number -and stairs moving inward and outward as well as upward and downward, the -ascent is unending, and every step a new beginning, where we must stand -our ground and pay the price for it. - -There is a Seven Stairs lurking unbeknown down every street as there was -for me on a summer day, getting off the bus at the wrong corner on my -way to meet my brother-in-law for lunch and walking along Rush Street, -fascinated with the strangeness of the neighborhood. I was reading all -the signs, for no purpose at all, but one that said, “Studio for Rent,” -stuck with me. I turned back to look at it again before rounding the -corner to go to my appointment. - -I met Mel in the kind of restaurant that is exactly the same everywhere, -the same I had been in a few weeks earlier while awaiting my army -discharge in San Francisco, the same fixtures, the same food, the same -waitresses, the same voices. But as I leaned across the table and began -talking, I experienced a sudden excitement and an idea generated which I -announced with as much assurance as though it had been the outcome of -months of deliberation. Fifteen years later, I can still see Mel’s jaw -drop and his momentary difficulty in breathing when I told him I had -decided I wanted to go into business. - -“What kind of business?” he said, finally. - -I told him that what Chicago needed was a real bookstore. It seemed to -me that I had always had visions of my name across a storefront: Stuart -Brent, Bookseller. I made him go with me to look at the “for rent” sign, -then together we went to see the landlord—my terrible, mincing, -Machiavellian, fat little landlord. - -We borrowed the keys and went back to see the studio. Mel didn’t really -want to go along, but somehow I had to have him with me. If the quarters -turned out to be disappointing, I didn’t think I could stand it. But -when we opened the door, the hot, dirty room was magic. As I looked up -at the sixteen foot ceiling, I imagined pretty Victorian society girls -dressing here for the ball. I wasn’t seeing the room. I had just stepped -through the door from Berkeley Square. - -“Isn’t this rather small for what you have in mind?” Mel said. - -“No, no,” I said, “it’s just fine. Everything is just fine!” - ------ - -Footnote 1: - - Conroy’s works consist of two novels, _The Disinherited_ and _A World - to Win_, several children’s books, and _They Seek the City_, a history - of Negro migration written in collaboration with Arna Bontemps with - the assistance of a Guggenheim Fellowship. - -Footnote 2: - - An informative pamphlet on literary agents can be obtained from the - Society of Authors Representatives, 522 Fifth Avenue, New York 36. - ------ - - - - - ---------------------------------------------------------------- - - Transcriber’s Note: - - ● The errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have - been corrected, and are noted here. - ● Where hyphenation occurs on a line break, the decision to - retain or remove is based on occurrences elsewhere in the - text. - ● Errors in punctuation and quotes have been silently - restored. - ● The footnotes were moved to the end of the e-text. - ● The numbers below reference the page and line in the - original book. - - - reference correction original text - 7.4 occupied occuped by a painter - 34.32 bookstore moving her Gold Coast book store - 37.31 sometimes sometimes tight and drawn, some times - 41.20 impression and the only inpression you can - 44.10 bestseller who wrote a best-seller thirty - 65.19 similar who hold similiar views on - 66.19 became if one of the “faithful” become - 68.2 conflict my inner conflct remained - 88.29 bestsellers under the pop numbers and best-sellers - 88.31 Malcolm Malcom Cowley, the distinguished critic - 95.26 Terkel Turkel’s famous “Studs’ Place” - 100.13 stick-up ‘This is a stickup!’ - 106.13 and ad civic responsibility - 106.17 café at a small cafe - 111.39 interrupted was often interupted - 121.6 sing-song low, almost singsong voices - 131.2 We we lived at 1639 South - 150.9 interrupted interupted whatever I was - 101.26 hardcover copies of the hard-cover book - 174.19 say was really meant to say that - 175.1 old-time old time actor in it - 186.4 success as the sucess of the book - - ---------------------------------------------------------------- - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEVEN STAIRS *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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left: -50%; margin:2em; } - h3.c005 {clear:both; } - div.tnotes { padding-left:1em;padding-right:1em;background-color:#E3E4FA; - border:1px solid silver; margin:1em 5% 0 5%; text-align: justify; } - div.tnotes {page-break-before: always; page-break-after: always; } - div.tnotes p { text-align:left; } - .x-ebookmaker .covernote { visibility: visible; display: block; } - .pbb { display: none ; } - .hidden { display: none; } - /* ]]> */ </style> - </head> - <body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The seven stairs, by Stuart Brent</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The seven stairs</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Stuart Brent</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: October 17, 2022 [eBook #69175]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Guus Snijders, Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEVEN STAIRS ***</div> - -<div class='tnotes'> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c000'> - <div>Transcriber’s note:</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c001'>The few minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please -see the <a href='#endnote'>transcriber’s note</a> at the end of this text -for details regarding the handling of any textual issues encountered -during its preparation.</p> - -<div class='htmlonly'> - -<p class='c001'>Corrections in spelling are indicated using an <ins class='correction' title='original spelling'>underline</ins> -highlight. Placing the cursor over the correction will produce the -original text in a small popup.</p> -<p class='c002'>The cover image has been modified and is placed in the public domain.</p> - -</div> -<div class='epubonly'> - -<p class='c001'>Corrections in spelling are indicated as hyperlinks, which will navigate the -reader to the corresponding entry in the corrections table in the -note at the end of the text.</p> -<div class='covernote'> - -<p class='c002'>The cover image has been modified and is placed in the public domain.</p> - -</div> - -</div> - -</div> - -<div> - <h1 class='c003'>THE<br> <br>SEVEN<br> <br>STAIRS</h1> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000'> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div>Stuart Brent</div> - <div class='c004'><span class='xlarge'>THE</span></div> - <div class='c004'><span class='small'>Houghton Mifflin Company Boston</span></div> - <div class='c004'><span class='xlarge'>SEVEN</span></div> - <div class='c004'><span class='small'>The Riverside Press Cambridge</span></div> - <div class='c004'><span class='xlarge'>STAIRS</span></div> - <div class='c004'><span class='small'>Nineteen Sixty-Two</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c000'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>First Printing</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Copyright © 1962 by Stuart Brent</div> - <div class='line'>All rights reserved including the right</div> - <div class='line'>to reproduce this book or parts thereof</div> - <div class='line'>in any form</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 62-8119</div> - <div class='line'>The quotation on pages 89 and 90 is from <i>The</i></div> - <div class='line'><i>Literary Situation</i> by Malcolm Cowley. Copyright</div> - <div class='line'>1954 by Malcolm Cowley. Reprinted by permission</div> - <div class='line'>of the Viking Press, Inc.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>The Riverside Press</div> - <div class='line'>Cambridge · Massachusetts</div> - <div class='line'>Printed in the U.S.A.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='main-container'> - -<div class='fixer-container'> - - <ul class='ul_1 c000'> - <li>To - </li> - <li>my - </li> - <li>mother - </li> - <li>and - </li> - <li>father - </li> - </ul> - -</div> - -</div> - -<h3 class='c005'>Acknowledgments</h3> - -<p class='c006'>In a real sense, this book is an acknowledgment to all who -have had a part in shaping my life and being. Since their -names appear only incidentally and accidentally—if at -all—in the course of the text, I hope with all my heart -that they will accept this collective note of gratitude for -all their help.</p> - -<p class='c007'>In particular, however, I wish to mention Hardwick -Moseley for his encouragement when the going was -rough; Milton Gilbert who made the Seven Stairs possible -in the first place; Henry Dry, one of the few men I know -who understand the meaning of forbearance; Goldie and -Kalmin Levin (Jennie’s mother and father) for their devotion -and unfailing help; Robert Parrish for his blue penciling; -and Hope, who after giving birth to our son, -Joseph, tenderly cared for the unstrung father through the -pangs of giving birth to <i>The Seven Stairs</i>.</p> -<div class='c008'>S. B.</div> - -<div class='hidden'> - -<h3 class='c005'>Contents</h3> - -</div> - -<table class='table0'> - <tr> - <td class='c009'> </td> - <td class='c010' colspan='2'><b>Contents</b></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c011' colspan='3'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'> </td> - <td class='c012'>1. And Nobody Came</td> - <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_1'>1</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c011' colspan='3'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'> </td> - <td class='c012'>2. “Read Your Lease. Goodbye.”</td> - <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_5'>5</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c011' colspan='3'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'> </td> - <td class='c012'>3. How to Get Started in the Book Business</td> - <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_15'>15</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c011' colspan='3'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'> </td> - <td class='c012'>4. Building the Seven Stairs</td> - <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_29'>29</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c011' colspan='3'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'> </td> - <td class='c012'>5. The Day My Accountant Cried</td> - <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_49'>49</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c011' colspan='3'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'> </td> - <td class='c012'>6. The Man with the Golden Couch</td> - <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_58'>58</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c011' colspan='3'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'> </td> - <td class='c012'>7. Farewell to the Seven Stairs</td> - <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_75'>75</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c011' colspan='3'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'> </td> - <td class='c012'>8. On the Avenue</td> - <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_87'>87</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c011' colspan='3'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'> </td> - <td class='c012'>9. Bark Point</td> - <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_110'>110</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c011' colspan='3'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'> </td> - <td class='c012'>10. Hope and I</td> - <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_130'>130</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c011' colspan='3'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'> </td> - <td class='c012'>11. My Affair with the Monster</td> - <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_141'>141</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c011' colspan='3'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'> </td> - <td class='c012'>12. Life in the Theatre</td> - <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_169'>169</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c011' colspan='3'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'> </td> - <td class='c012'>13. Writing and Publishing</td> - <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_179'>179</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c011' colspan='3'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'> </td> - <td class='c012'>14. Books and Brent</td> - <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_195'>195</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<div class='lg-container-b c000'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>THE</span></div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>SEVEN</span></div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>STAIRS</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span> - <h3 class='c005'><span class='xxlarge'>1</span><br>And Nobody Came</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c013'>I might as well tell you what this book is about.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Years ago I started to write a memoir about a young -fellow who wanted to be a book dealer and how he made -out. I tore it up when I discovered the subject had -already been covered by a humorist named Will Cuppy -in a book called, <i>How to Become Extinct</i>.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Now I’m not so sure. I’m still around in my middle-aged -obsolescence and all about us the young are withering -on the vine. Civilization may beat me yet in achieving -the state of the dodo. The tragedy is that so few seem to -know or really believe it. Maybe there just isn’t enough -innocence left to join with the howl of the stricken book -dealer upon barging into the trap. Not just a howl of self-pity, -but the yap of the human spirit determined to assert -itself no matter what. There’s some juice in that spirit -yet, or there would be no point in submitting the following -pages as supporting evidence—hopefully, or bitterly, -or both.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_2'>2</span>Let there be no doubt about my original qualifications -for the role of Candide. With three hundred dollars worth -of books (barely enough to fill five shelves), a used record -player, and some old recordings (left in my apartment -when I went into the army and still there upon my -return), I opened the Seven Stairs Book and Record Shop -on the Near North Side of Chicago.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The shop was located in one of the old brownstone, converted -residences still remaining on Rush Street—a fashionable -townhouse district in the era after the Great -Chicago Fire, now the kind of a district into which fashionable -townhouses inevitably decline. One had to climb -a short flight of stairs above an English basement (I -thought there were seven steps—in reality there were -eight), pass through a short, dark hall, and unlock a door -with a dime store skeleton key before entering finally into -the prospective shop. It was mid-August of 1946 when I -first stood there in the barren room. The sun had beaten -in all day and I gasped for air; and gasping, I stood wondering -if this was to be the beginning of a new life and an -end to the hit-or-miss of neither success nor failure that -summed up my career to the moment.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It all fitted my mood perfectly: the holes in the plaster, -the ripped molding, the 1890 light fixture that hung by -blackened chains from the ceiling, the wood-burning fireplace, -the worn floor, the general air of decay lurking in -every corner. Long before the scene registered fully upon -my mind, it had entered into my emotions. I saw everything -and forgave everything. It could all be repaired, -painted, cleaned—set right with a little work. I saw the -little room filled with books and records, a fire going, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span>myself in a velvet jacket, seated behind a desk, being -charming and gracious to everyone who came in.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I saw success, excitement, adventure, in the world I -loved—the world of books and music. I saw fine people -coming and going—beautiful women and handsome -men. I saw myself surrounded by warmth, friendship -and good feeling, playing my favorite recordings all day, -telling my favorite stories, finding myself.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I ran my fingers over the mantelpiece. “I want this -room,” I said to myself. “I want it.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I built shelves to the ceiling and bought all the books I -could buy. There was no money left to buy the velvet -jacket. Every morning I opened the store bright and early. -Every night I closed very late. And no one came to visit -me. Morning, noon, and night it was the same. I was -alone with my books and my music. Everything was so -bright, so shiny, so clean. And the books! There were not -very many, but they were all so good! Still nobody came.</p> - -<p class='c014'>How do you go about getting people to buy books? I -didn’t know. I had been a teacher before the war. My father -was not a business man either, nor his father. No one -in my family knew anything about business. I knew the -very least.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Every morning I walked into the shop freshly determined: -today I will sell a book! I hurried with my housekeeping. -And then, what to do? Phone a friend or a relative. -I couldn’t think of a relative who read or a friend -who wouldn’t see through the thin disguise of my casual -greeting and understand the ulterior purpose of my call.</p> - -<p class='c014'>One late afternoon it happened. One of the beautiful -people I had dreamed about <i>came in</i>.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span>She stood on the threshold, apparently debating -whether it was safe to venture further. “Is this a bookstore?” -she said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Please come in,” I said. “It’s a bookshop.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>She was solidly built and had a round face above a -heavy neck with the fat comfortably overlapping the collar -of her white dress. Her legs were sturdy, her feet -were spread in a firm stance, she was fat and strong and -daring.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Do you have a copy of <i>Peace of Mind</i>?” said my daring -first customer.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Everyone was reading the rabbi’s book that summer—except -me. It was a bestseller; naturally I wouldn’t -touch it. But here was a customer!</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Lady,” I said, opening my business career on a note of -total capitulation, “if you’ll wait here a moment, I’ll get -the book for you.” She nodded.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Please,” I added, running out the door.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I sprinted four blocks to A. C. McClurg’s, the wholesaler -from whom I bought my original three hundred dollars’ -worth of books, and bought a single copy of <i>Peace of -Mind</i> for $1.62. Then I ran back to complete my first sale -for $2.50.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The realization overwhelmed me that I was totally unprepared -to sell a book. I had no bags or wrapping paper. -I had no cash register or even a cigar box. It seemed -highly improper to accept money and then reach into my -pocket for change. It was a long time, in fact, before I -could get over the embarrassment of taking anyone’s -money at all. I found it very upsetting.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span> - <h3 class='c005'><span class='xxlarge'>2</span><br>“Read Your Lease. Goodbye.”</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c013'>The near North Side of Chicago is a Greenwich Village, -a slum, and a night life strip bordered by the commerce -of Michigan Boulevard and the Gold Coast homes -and apartments of the wealthy.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Into a narrow trough between the down-and-out losers -of Clark Street and the luxurious livers of Lake Shore -Drive flows a stream of life that has no direction, organization, -or established pattern. Here are attracted the inner-directed -ones struggling with their own visions, along -with the hangers-on, the disenchanted and emotionally -bankrupt. It is a haven for the broken soul as well as the -earnest and rebellious. The drug addict, the petty thief, -the sex deviant and the alcoholic are generously mixed -in among the sincere and aspiring. There are the dislocated -wealthy, the connivers and parasites, abortionists -and pimps. There are call girls and crowds of visiting -firemen, second hand clothing stores and smart shops, -pawn brokers and art supply stores.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>Gertrude Stein once wrote about Picasso’s reply to a -young man who was seeking advice on the best location -for opening a Parisian bookstore: “I would just find a -place and start selling books.” Well, I found a place, -uniquely unfavored as a crossroads of commerce (during -the day, virtually no one was on the street), but teeming -with the malcontents, the broken, the battered—the flotsam -and jetsam of urban life, along with inspired or aspiring -prophets, musicians, artists, and writers. What more -could one ask?</p> - -<p class='c014'>The original dimensions of the Seven Stairs were fifteen -feet by nine feet. A single bay window looked onto Rush -Street. At the other end of the room stood a small sink. -The bathroom was on the second floor and seldom -worked. Three ashcans on the sidewalk by my window -served the building for garbage disposal. Occasionally -the city emptied them.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Across the hall was a hat shop—a blind for a call girl -establishment. The woman who ran it was actually a hat -maker and made hats for her girls. She was a heavy -woman with enormous breasts, who wore immense earrings, -always dressed in black silk, and changed her hair -dye regularly: red, jet black, once silver-grey. She had a -small, bow-shaped mouth, garishly painted, and in the -four years I knew her an improper word never passed her -lips. She was filled with commiseration for cats, at least -a dozen of which wandered in and out of the hall daily. -Once in a while, she would buy a book, always with a fifty -dollar bill, and then was very apologetic for the inconvenience -when I had to run to the drug store for change.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>Behind my shop was another studio occupied by a -charming hypochondriacal ballet dancer and a boy -friend who was the tallest, ugliest man I had ever encountered. -Above were two more studios, <a id='corr7.4'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='occuped'>occupied</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_7.4'>occupied</a></span> by a painter -and a girl who wrote poetry. There were also two studios -on the third floor, but to this day I have no idea who was -there. A bricklayer lived in the basement with his odd and -rather pretty daughter, who had bad teeth, a nervous -tic, and huge, burning black eyes.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Over this assortment of humanity ruled an evil king who -in my reasoned opinion was in fact Mephistopheles in the -guise of a landlord. His life had its meaning in seeing that -the innocent were punished, that neighbors were aroused -to hate and distrust one another, and that needless disaster -always threatened his subjects and often befell them.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was amazing how he could achieve his devilish ends -by the simple incantation, “Read your lease. Goodbye.” -This was his message, whether in the inevitable phone call -when you were a day late with the rent, or in answer to -your call for help when the fuses in the basement blew or -when on a bitter February night the sink broke and the -shop began floating away.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The sink affair occurred at a point when my business -had developed to the extent of a few regular accounts -and come to a quiet stalemate. Once these faithful customers -had come in, I was through for the month. I could -scarcely stand the empty hours waiting for someone to -talk with. It was bitter February, cold enough to keep any -sensible soul off the streets. I sat before the fire, filled with -self-pity, my doomed life stretching hopelessly before me. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>Finally I bestirred myself—and this was my undoing.</p> - -<p class='c014'>All I did was throw a carton up to a shelf—a sort of -basketball toss that missed. The box hit the sink, tipped -off, and, incredibly, broke an aged lead water pipe. To -my horror, water began gushing over the floor. I tried -to stuff a towel into the pipe. No good. My beautiful -shop! All the beautiful books! Ruin!</p> - -<p class='c014'>Still holding the towel to the pipe with one hand, I -dialed my father’s telephone number. He was a sound -man concerning the mechanical world.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Do you have a broom?” he said. “All right, cut it in -two and make a plug for the pipe. Then call your landlord.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I went to work frantically. All the time water was pouring -across the floor. Finally I managed to whittle a temporary -plug. Then I phoned the landlord.</p> - -<p class='c014'>He inquired of my business success.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Please,” I said. “The pipe to the sink has broken. My -store will be ruined. Where is the shut-off?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I don’t know where the shut-off is,” he said. “You are -responsible. Read your lease. Goodbye.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I turned to the City Water Department next. By the -time I explained to them what had happened and they examined -their charts and discovered where the cut-offs -might be located, I was standing in an inch of water.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Someone would be over, I was assured. But not right -away. In a few hours perhaps. All the men were out on -emergencies. However, I could try to find the cut-offs myself. -They were outside near the street lamp about a foot -from the curb.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>I stuck my head out the door. It was about ten degrees -above zero, and the ground along the curbing was covered -with at least five inches of ice and snow. What to do? -And all the time, more water was bubbling over the -broom handle and splashing onto the floor.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Down at the corner there was a drug store owned by a -man of infinite patience and understanding. No human -act was beyond his comprehension or forgiveness, and he -was always ready to help in moments of crisis. If a girl -needed help, our man at the drug store was there. If she -needed work, legitimate or otherwise, he could find the -spot for her. If a man needed to make a touch, he could -get it without interest. Our druggist was no fence or law -breaker—but he was an answering service, a father confessor, -and an unlikely guardian angel. I ran to him with -my trouble.</p> - -<p class='c014'>He looked at me with his sleepy eyes, and, his soft lips -forming quiet assurances, came up with a shovel, an ax, -and a pail of hot water.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The problem was where to dig. I went at it blindly, saying -to myself: “Shovel. Shovel. Die if you must. But -shovel.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>When I had gotten an area of snow removed, I poured -water over the ice and went at it with the ax. Finally I -struck the top of the box containing the cut-offs and managed -to pry open the lid. There were two knobs in the -box, and having no idea which one related to my store, I -turned them both shut.</p> - -<p class='c014'>After returning the hardware to the drug store, I sloshed -back into my inundated establishment and began sweeping -<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>the water out with what was left of the broom. Working -like a madman, I got most of the water out into the -hall, out the door, and over the stairs, where it froze instantaneously. -Never mind—tomorrow I will chop the -ice away and all will be well.</p> - -<p class='c014'>By this time, my strength was exhausted and the shop -was nearly as cold as the outdoors. I felt as though I had -survived some kind of monstrous test. I dumped logs on -the fire, waited until they were ablaze, then stripped off -my wet shoes and socks and wrapped my frozen feet in -my coat.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I was sure I had caught pneumonia. I wouldn’t be able -to open the store for weeks. The few accounts I had would -surely be lost. It was the end of everything. How good -it would be if only death would come now, while there -was yet a little warmth to taste in a world which certainly -wanted nothing of my kind.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Out of my reverie, I heard a bitter cry. It came from -outside near my door. I jumped up and looked down the -hall. Two men in evening dress were wrestling on the -stairs. The screaming and cursing were awful. At last -they scrambled up and started toward me.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“You son of a bitch,” one of them cried. “I’ll kill you!” -His fall on the stairs had damaged his suit. Bits of ice had -collected about his long nose, a few even glistened in his -moustache. His hair practically stood on end. Snow and -ice covered his jacket and patched his trousers. His black -tie was crooked and his dress shirt sodden. The other -fellow stared fiercely at me, restraining his partner with -one hand, the other balled into a fist, threatening me. -“Who put you up to this? Why do you want to ruin our -<span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>business? You mother-raping bastard, I’ll cut your -throat!” He took a step forward. I stepped back.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Tell us or we’ll kill you here and now.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I had never seen these men before in my life. As I retreated -toward my desk, they swept the books off it onto -the wet floor. They sat on the desk and stared at me, and -everything became very quiet.</p> - -<p class='c014'>They were proprietors of the restaurant in the corner -building, also owned by my landlord. In shutting off the -water, I had turned off theirs, too. They also had called -the landlord, and he told them that I was undoubtedly responsible. -But he failed to tell them what had been happening -to me.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Now I showed them the broken pipe, the floor still wet -in spots, my hands which were raw and bruised. I picked -up the books from the floor and took off the wet dust jackets. -Here goes my profit for a week, I thought. I could tell -their anger had cooled. Instead of being cruel, they -looked almost contrite. I went outside again in my wet -shoes and socks and coat and turned one of the shut-off -keys. Naturally it was the wrong one. The restaurant -man pounded at the window to attract my attention. I -reversed my switches and restored their precious water.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I remained in the shop a while, too exhausted and -heartbroken to leave. Where now, little man? I didn’t -know. But I resolved never to call my landlord again—no -matter what.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was a fruitless resolve. One morning two inspectors -from the Fire Department paid me a visit.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Are those your logs under the stairs?” one of them -asked.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>“Those are my logs,” I said. “But they are not under -the stairs. They are by a stone wall near the stairs.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“That makes no difference. It’s a fire hazard and someone -has filed a complaint. Get the logs out by tomorrow -or we’ll close you up.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I remembered my landlord’s visit a week earlier. He -had commented that I had a good pile of logs which -should make a warm fire. He twirled his cane and looked -at me from cat-grey eyes, set in a flabby yellow face -crushed in a thousand wrinkles. As he minced about on -his tiny feet, encased in patent leather pumps, I expected -any moment to see the walls part or the ceiling open for -his exit. When he left in the normal way, wishing me good -luck and great success, I was sure he doffed his black -homburg to me. Almost sure.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Now I threw my resolutions to the wind and phoned -him, determined to take the offensive at any cost.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Why did you call those fire inspectors?” I demanded. -“Couldn’t you have told me if I was breaking an ordinance?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>The more my voice rose, the more he chuckled.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Not long afterward a fat, tobacco chewing sloven entered -the shop and stood looking around carefully, swaying -on the balls of his feet. I thought he might be a tout, -lost on his way to a bookie.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Where does this wire go?” he finally asked.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Go?” I said. “Who cares?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Don’t get snotty with me, buddy,” he said. “I’m going -to close you up. I’m the city electrical inspector and we’ve -got a complaint that your wiring is a hazard to the building.”</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>He continued to stand in the middle of the floor, his -hands locked behind his back, swaying back and forth like -the old Jews on High Holidays in the Synagogue.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When he had gone, I called my landlord and cried, -“Listen, you are killing me with inspection. Wish me bad -luck and bankruptcy and leave me alone!”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Of course I had to get an electrical contractor, whose -workmen tore the shop to pieces, removed perfectly good -wiring, and replaced it.</p> - -<p class='c014'>A week later a tall man in a Brooks Brothers suit and -carrying an attaché case came to collect the bill for -$375.00. His smugness was so overwhelming that I -turned and walked away from him. As I moved along, inspecting -my bookshelves, he followed closely behind. I -could see myself walking down Rush Street, going to dinner, -going home, with this persistent, immaculate young -man silently in attendance. Suddenly, turning, I stepped -squarely on his polished shoes.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Excusing myself, I said, “You know, the man to pay you -for this work is my landlord. If the wiring was faulty between -the walls, obviously I have nothing to do with it. -I’ll call him up. You can talk with him.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>My landlord must have been surprised at my cheery -voice. “I have an interesting gentleman here who wants -to talk with you,” I said. “He is a genius. The work he did -for you in the installation of BX wires between the walls -is something to be seen to be appreciated. You’ll marvel -at its beauty. Here he is.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I handed over the receiver. The storm of words coming -from the other end nearly blew the young man off his -feet. I couldn’t contain my laughter. I lurched over to a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>wall, holding my guts and laughing till I cried. It was -marvelous. Wonderful. I had reversed the tables at last.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Naturally, I paid the bill. My landlord had new electrical -outlets, but our relations were different. He continued -to take advantage of me, but not any longer under -the guise of wishing me “good luck” or a “great success.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>My landlord helped me. He taught me to be on guard. -He taught me that it is, in fact, cold outside. He put me -on trial—rather like K in Kafka’s <i>The Trial</i>. I could not -just go running for help when trouble came. I could -no longer retreat into the fantasy of pretending that running -a bookstore was not a business. He taught me that -the world requires people to take abuse, lying, cheating, -duplicity—and outlast them.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Now when my landlord came to visit me, it was on an -entirely new emotional basis. Nothing was different in -appearance, yet in feeling everything was changed because -I was no longer afraid. When he cheated me now, -it was only a cheap triumph for him. I was free because I -had become inwardly secure. I did not beat the Devil, but -I knew positively that the Devil exists, that evil is real. -Let him do his worst—his absolute worst—so long as -you can handle yourself, he cannot ultimately triumph. -Where K failed in <i>The Trial</i> was in his emotional inability -to handle his threatened ego.</p> - -<p class='c014'>K’s trial is allegorical. So was my landlord. Only with -the imagination can we see through into what is real. My -landlord was one of the disguises of evil. I know -now that had I let him throw me, I could never have withstood -the trials of reality that were to come.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span> - <h3 class='c005'><span class='xxlarge'>3</span><br>How to Get Started<br>in the Book Business</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c013'>I had decided to become a bookseller because I loved -good books. I assumed there must be many others who -shared a love for reading and that I could minister to their -needs. I thought of this as a calling. It never occurred to -me to investigate bookselling as a business.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Had I done so, I should have learned that eighty percent -of all the hardcover books purchased across the counter -in America are sold by twenty booksellers. If I had -been given the facts and sat down with pencil and paper, -I could have discovered that to earn a living and continue -to build the kind of inventory that would make it possible -to go on selling, I would need to have an annual gross in -the neighborhood of $100,000!</p> - -<p class='c014'>Even if I had had the facts in hand, they would -not have deterred me. If vows of poverty were necessary, -I was ready to take them. And I refused to be distressed -by the expressions on people’s faces when I confided that -I was about to make a living selling books. Sell freight, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>yes. Sell bonds or stocks or insurance, certainly. Sell pots -and pans. But books!</p> - -<p class='c014'>And I was not only going to sell books—I was going to -sell <i>real</i> books: those that dealt seriously and truly with -the spirit of man.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I had finished cleaning and decorating my little shop -before it dawned on me that I did not know how to go -about the next step: getting a stock of books and records -to sell. A study of the classified telephone directory revealed -the names of very few publishers that sounded at -all familiar. Was it possible there were no publishers in -Chicago? If that were the case, would I have to go -to New York?</p> - -<p class='c014'>There was a telephone listing for Little, Brown and -Company, so I called them. The lady there said she would -be glad to see me. She proved to be very kind and very -disillusioning.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“No,” she said, “the book business is not easy, and your -location is bad. No, the big publishers will not sell to you -direct because your account is too small. No, we at Little, -Brown won’t either. If I were you, I’d forget the whole -idea and go back to teaching.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Everything was No. But she did tell me where I could -buy books of all publishers wholesale, and that was the information -I wanted. I hastened to A. C. McClurg’s and -presented myself to the credit manager.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The fact that I had a shop, nicely decorated, did not -seem to qualify me for instant credit. First I would have -to fill out an application and await the results of an investigation. -In the meantime if I wanted books, I could -buy them for cash.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>“All right,” I said. “I want to buy three hundred dollars -worth of books.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“That isn’t very much,” the man said. “How big is your -store?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Well,” I said, “it’s fifteen feet long and nine feet wide, -and I’m going to carry records, too.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>He shook his head and, with a sidewise glance, asked, -“What did you say your name was?” Then, still apparently -somewhat shattered, he directed me to a salesman.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I launched into my buying terribly, terribly happy, -yet filled with all sorts of misgivings. Was I selecting the -right books? And who would I sell them to? But I had -only to touch their brand new shiny jackets to restore my -confidence. I remember buying Jules Romain’s <i>Men of -Good Will</i>. In fifteen years, I never sold a copy. I’m still -trying. I bought Knut Hamson, Thomas Mann, Sigrid -Undset, Joseph Hergesheimer, Willa Cather, Henry James—as -much good reading as I could obtain for $298.49. I -was promised delivery as soon as the check cleared.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When the books arrived on a Saturday morning, it -was like a first love affair. I waited breathlessly as the -truck drew up, full of books for my shop. It wasn’t full -at all, of course—not for me, anyway. My books were -contained in a few modest boxes. And I had built shelves -all the way up to the ceiling!</p> - -<p class='c014'>Again, a moment of panic. Enough, my heart said. -Stay in the dream! What’s next?</p> - -<p class='c014'>The next step was to get recordings. In this field, at -least, I found that all the major companies had branch offices -in Chicago. I called Columbia records and was told -they’d send me a salesman.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>He arrived a few days later, blue eyed and blond -haired, an interesting man with a sad message. “No, we -can’t open you up,” he said. “It’s out of the question. Your -store is in direct conflict with Lyon and Healy on the Avenue. -So there’s no question about it, we can’t give you a -franchise. We won’t. Decca won’t. And I’m sure RCA -won’t.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I was overcome with rage. Didn’t he know I had fought -to keep this country free? Wasn’t there such a thing as -free enterprise? Didn’t I have a right to compete in a decent -and honorable manner? If I couldn’t get records one -way, I’d get them another, I assured him. Strangely -enough, he seemed to like my reaction. Later he was able -to help me.</p> - -<p class='c014'>But for the present, I was reduced to borrowing more -money from my brother-in-law with which to buy off-beat -recordings from an independent distributor. I brought -my own phonograph from home and my typewriter and -settled down to the long wait for the first customer.</p> - -<p class='c014'>How do you get going in a business of which you have -no practical knowledge and which inherently is a doomed -undertaking to begin with? The only answer is that you -must be favored with guardian angels.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The first one to bring a flutter of hope into my life came -into it on a September afternoon at a luncheon affair, under -I do not know what auspices, for Chicago authors. -There I encountered a distinguished looking white-haired -gentleman, tall but with the sloping back of a literary man, -standing mildly in a corner. I introduced myself to Vincent -Starrett, bibliophile and Sherlock Holmes scholar. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>He listened attentively to my account of myself and took -my phone number. A few days later he called to ask for -more information about my idea of combining the sale -of books and records.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I pointed out that it was easy, for example, to sell a copy -of Ibsen’s <i>Peer Gynt</i> if the customer was familiar with -Grieg’s incidental music for the play. Besides, reading -and listening were closely allied activities. Anyone with -literary tastes could or should have equivalent tastes in -music. It was logical to sell a record at the same time you -sold a book. Mr. Starrett thought this was a fine idea, and -to my shocked surprise, wrote a paragraph about me in his -column in the Book Section of the <i>Chicago Sunday Tribune</i>.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The Monday after the write-up appeared, I could hardly -wait to get to the shop. I expected it would be flooded -with people. It wasn’t. The phone didn’t even ring. I -was disappointed, but still felt that hidden forces were -working in the direction of my success. Mr. Starrett’s -kind words were a turning point for me—I no longer felt -anonymous.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Some people did see the write-up—intelligent, charming, -good people, such as I had imagined gathering in my -tiny premises. Among them were two young women who -were commercial artists. One day they complained that -there was nothing in the store to sit on, and after I had -stumbled for excuses, they presented me with a bench -decorated on either side with the inscriptions: “Words -and Music by Stuart Brent,” and “Time Is Well Spent with -Stuart Brent.” Now I felt sure things were looking up.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>My next good genie and an important influence in my -life was a short, bald gentleman with horn-rimmed spectacles -who stood uncertainly in the doorway and asked, -“Where’s the shop?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>He was Ben Kartman, then Associate Editor of <i>Coronet -Magazine</i>, a man as kind and thoughtful as he is witty and -urbane. He came in and looked around, studied the -empty shelves, and shook his head. He shook his head -often that afternoon. He wondered if I was seriously trying -to be a bookseller—or was I just a dreamer with a -hideout?</p> - -<p class='c014'>Surely I wanted to survive, didn’t I? Surely I wanted -to sell books. Well, in that case, he assured me, I was going -about it all wrong. For one thing, I had no sign. For -another, I had no books in the windows. And most important -of all, I had no stock. How can you do business -without inventory? You can’t sell apples out of an empty -barrel.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I took all his comments without a sound.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Then Ben said, “Sunday come out to the house. I’ve -got a lot of review copies as well as old but saleable books. -Even if you don’t sell them, put them on the shelves. The -store will look more prosperous.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>He gave me several hundred books from his library, -which we hauled to the store in his car. The Seven Stairs -began to look like a real bookshop.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Ben Kartman also decided that I needed publicity. Not -long afterward, my name appeared in a daily gossip -column in one of the Chicago newspapers. Ben said that -these daily puffers could be important to me, and this -proved to be the case.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>Meshing with my association with Kartman was another -significant influence—a man who certainly altered my -life and might have changed it still more had he lived. He -was Ric Riccardo, owner of a famous restaurant a quarter -of a mile down the street from my shop, and one of the -most extraordinary and magnetic personalities I have ever -encountered. He was an accomplished artist, but it was -his fire, his avid love of life, his utterly unfettered speech -and manner, his infatuation both with physical being and -ideas that drew the famous and the somewhat famous and -the plain hangers-on constantly to his presence. He is the -only great romantic character I have known.</p> - -<p class='c014'>He first came into my store one day before Christmas. -He wore a Cossack fur hat and a coat with a huge mink -collar and held a pair of Great Danes on a leash. He had -the physique of Ezio Pinza and the profile (not to mention -more than a hint of the bags beneath the eyes) of his -friend, the late John Barrymore. He was tremendous. He -told me all he wanted was some light reading to get his -mind off his troubles.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Later when Riccardo and the Danes entered the shop, -virtually filling it, I would stand on a chair to converse -with him. He was very tall and it gave me a better chance -to observe him. Although his language was often coarse, -he shunned small talk or fake expressions. The only time -he ever reprimanded me was the day I used the phrase, -“I’ve got news for you.” As our friendship became firm, I -would often join him after closing the store for a bowl of -green noodles (still a great specialty of the restaurant -which is now managed by his son).</p> - -<p class='c014'>Now if, as Ben said, I did everything wrong, there was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>at least one thing I certainly did not neglect to do. I -talked to people. I knew my books and I knew what I -was talking about. Ideas were and are living things to -me and objects of total enthusiasm. It hurt me terribly -if someone came in and asked for a book without letting -me talk with him about it. The whole joy of selling a book -was in talking about the ideas in it. It was a matter of -sharing my life and my thought and my very blood stream -with others. <i>That</i> was why I had been impelled into this -mad venture—unrelated to any practical consideration -beyond enthusiasm for the only things that seemed to me -to be meaningful. Ric was one of those who responded -to this enthusiasm.</p> - -<p class='c014'>One very cold February morning, a cab stopped outside -the shop. I saw two men and a woman get out and -come up the stairs. There was a good fire going in the fireplace -and it was quiet and warm inside.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Ric was the only member of the trio I recognized, although -the other man looked at me as though I should -know him. But the woman! She wore the longest, most -magnificent mink coat I had ever seen, the collar partially -turned up about her head. When she spoke, I backed -away, but she stepped in and extended her hand to me. It -was Katharine Hepburn.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Oh, yes, that’s Katie,” the unidentified man said, and -all of them laughed at my obvious confusion. Miss Hepburn -sat on my decorated bench and held out her hands -to the fire.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Ric said, “Stuart, my boy, this is Luther Adler.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I was too nervous to say anything as we shook hands. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>I could only keep staring at Katharine Hepburn. I adored -her. I loved her accent and those cheek bones and that -highly charged voice. I wanted so much to do something -for her but I couldn’t think of anything to do.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Suddenly Ric said, “Let’s buy some books.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Mr. Adler looked about and said, “Do you have a book -for a Lost Woman?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I said, “Yes,” and handed him a copy of Ferdinand -Lundberg’s new book, <i>Modern Woman: The Lost Sex</i>. He -gave it to Miss Hepburn, saying, “Here, Katie, this is for -you.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Without a pause, she turned and said, “Do you have a -good book for a Lost Jew?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Yes,” I said, and produced a Sholem Asch volume.</p> - -<p class='c014'>She gave it to Mr. Adler, saying, “Here, Luther, this is -for you.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>They bought many books that morning, and I was -swept away in wonder and exhilaration at the possibility -of bringing happiness to Lost Women, Lost Jews, the -Beautiful and the Great, alike in their needs with all of -us for the strength and joy of the spirit. It was wonderful—but -it was awful when I had to take their money.</p> - -<p class='c014'>A world very much like that of my dreams began to -open up. People came. Authors began to congregate -around the fireplace. The shop was visited by newspaper -writers like Martha King, of the <i>Chicago Sun-Times</i>, who -wrote a charming article, for which I was deeply grateful. -I was beginning to do business, although still without -a cash register. The rent was paid promptly, and -McClurg’s permitted me to have a charge account. One -<span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>or two Eastern publishers even let me have some books -on open account. And the man from Columbia Records -kept dropping by, leading me to believe that they might -be thinking about me in spite of their presumed obligations -to Lyon and Healy.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Why did people come, often far out of their way and at -considerable inconvenience? I was too busy to reflect -upon the matter at the time. There was nothing there but -the books and me—and a great deal of talk. But some -need must have been filled—by moving people to take -notice of themselves, forcing them to think about what -they were reading or what they were listening to. We -talked a lot of small talk, too, but it was small talk with -heart in it. And the effect was contagious. Those who -came told others and they came too.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The place acquired a life of its own, which will be the -subject of many of the following pages. But that life, real -and wonderful as it was, could not endure. Perhaps it is -worth writing about because it is <i>not</i> a success story—and -what came after has its meaning in the reflected tenderness -and flickering hope those years taught one to -cherish.</p> - -<p class='c014'>This is not merely a sentimental record. It has no point -unless seen against the background of the cultural poverty -of our society—and the apparent economic impossibility -of alleviating that poverty through commercial -channels such as the publication and distribution of books.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The plain fact is, the kind of business I wanted to immerse -myself in does not exist. One of the reasons it does -not exist is because the publishing industry does not—and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>quite possibly cannot—support it, even to the extent -of supplying its reason for being: good books. The -business of publishing and the profession of letters have -become worlds apart. The arts are being bereft of their -purpose through a horrifying operation known as “the -communications industry,” an industry geared for junk -eaters.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Publishing is “bigger” and more profitable today than -ever before, largely because of the mushrooming of educational -institutions and the consequent demand for textbooks. -Wall Street has gone into publishing; there is -money in it. But the money is in mass distribution—through -the schools, through the book clubs. It is little -wonder that the individual, personal bookseller is an -anachronism, lost sight of by the publishers themselves. -The bookseller may feel outraged, as I did, when a publisher -sells him books, then sends out a mailing piece to -the bookseller’s customers offering the same books at a -much lower price. The practice is certainly unfair, but -the bookseller has become a completely vestigial distributing -organ. What the publisher is really looking forward -to is the possibility that one of the book clubs will take -some of his publications, further slashing the price beyond -the possibility of retail competition.</p> - -<p class='c014'>And what of the writer? If he can turn out bestsellers, -he can live like a potentate. But the sure-fire formula in -this field is to pander to a sex-starved culture and a dirty, -vulgar one to boot. A book written by this or any other -formula can’t be worth anything. A true book must be -part of the individual’s life and spirit.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>It is commonplace to blame the public for what the -public gets. And no doubt the public must take the blame. -But I am not interested in giving the public what it wants -if this means corrupting man’s spirit even through as ineffectual -a medium as the printed word.</p> - -<p class='c014'>As a matter of fact, I have never had what people -wanted to read (“Your competitor just bought fifty copies -of this title,” the publisher’s representative would tell me, -shaking his head hopelessly), and I lost out because of it. -But my personal satisfaction derived from recommending -some book, possibly an old one, that I thought would -bring the reader something fresh and real.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Anything that touches the heart or stirs the mind has -become a matter for apology. I think of Mary Martin -coming out on the stage in <i>South Pacific</i> and begging the -audience’s indulgence and forgiveness for having to admit -to them that she was in love with a wonderful guy!</p> - -<p class='c014'>Is it any wonder that modern men and women are so -threatened, frightened, and weak when they have lost the -capacity for love, tenderness and awe—capacities which -should be nourished by what we read? And especially -the men. “Where are the men?” the women ask. Once a -man has joined “the organization,” the love of a real -woman offers a basic threat. The organization man -doesn’t want to be challenged by a relationship any more -than by an idea.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was to these deficiencies in people’s lives that I had -hoped to minister. Reading remains a positive leverage -to keep us from becoming dehumanized. But easy reading -won’t do it, or phony Great Book courses that foster smugness -<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>and an assumed superiority (read the ads purveying -this kind of intellectual snobbery).</p> - -<p class='c014'>We can’t go on devaluating the human spirit and expect -some miracle to save us. Even Moses couldn’t get -the Red Sea to divide until a stranger acted upon absolute -faith and jumped in. I felt my job was to get people to -jump—to read something, old or new, that could engage -them in some real vision of human possibilities: to read Albert -Camus or Graham Greene or Rollo May or Erich -Fromm. To read again (or for the first time) Ibsen’s <i>Peer -Gynt</i> or Kafka’s <i>The Trial</i>, Bruno Bettleheim’s <i>The Informed -Heart</i>, F. S. C. Northrop’s <i>Philosophical Anthropology</i>, -or Father duChardin’s <i>The Phenomena of Man</i>.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I decided I could sell a good book just as easily as a bad -book. In the days following the visit of Katharine Hepburn, -I placed <i>Modern Woman: The Lost Sex</i> into the -hands of many women, and the responses were gratifying -and illuminating. Finally I wrote a letter to Ferdinand -Lundberg, co-author of the book, telling him of one -of the most interesting of these incidents. He sent the letter -along to Mary Griffiths, then advertising manager for -Harper and Brothers, who asked permission to reprint it -in its entirety as an ad in the <i>Chicago Tribune</i> book section. -A phenomenal sale resulted. I sold hundreds of -copies and so did other Chicago booksellers.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It looked as though things were opening up for me, as -though I might be on the way toward proving my point. -And perhaps something was proved. Much later when -in a state of great depression I wrote a gloomy letter to -Hardwick Moseley, sales manager of Houghton Mifflin, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>he responded by saying, “Never will I permit you to leave -the book business. If we had fifty more like you in the -United States we might have a business!” But for so many -reasons, some of which I have just dwelt on, the odds -against fifty such enterprises flowering—or any of them -flourishing—are very, very great.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Meantime, however, several colorful years of the Seven -Stairs lay ahead, and, beyond that, an unimagined range -of encounter in the diverse realms of art and letters, -psychiatry, commerce, and, that monster of the age, television.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span> - <h3 class='c005'><span class='xxlarge'>4</span><br>Building the Seven Stairs</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c013'>You’d be surprised how humiliating it can be to wrap -books in cramped quarters.</p> - -<p class='c014'>As business grew, Saturday afternoon became a great -but soul-shattering time for me. The shop was filled with -people, music, conversation. There was the delicious thrill -of selling, tarnished still by the dubious proposition of -taking money, and followed finally by the utter physical -subjugation of package wrapping. One moment I was riding -a wave of spiritual exhilaration; the next moment I -was the contorted victim of some degrading seizure as I -grappled with paper and twine while people pressed -about me. The shop was too small!</p> - -<p class='c014'>Ben Kartman had constantly encouraged me to expand. -But expand where? Well, there was a back room -occupied by a dancer who had given up his career -because of a psychotic fear of travel. It was a fine, big -room, and it too had a fireplace. He was very friendly and -I had helped him find a bit of solace through Havelock -<span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>Ellis’ <i>The Dance of Life</i>. The only course now seemed to -be to persuade him to move into one of the vacant studios -upstairs. This proved not difficult to do so far as he was -concerned, but what of our landlord?</p> - -<p class='c014'>So again I was calling my landlord, and with his voice -dripping with its usual sweetness he invited me to come -right over.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was all just the same, the little patent leather shoes, -the pin striped trousers, the pearl grey vest, the stickpin -in the tie, the waxed moustache, the mincing steps across -the thick rugs of the rich, imperious, and somewhat decayed -quarters. There was the same circuitous conversation -with a thousand extraneous asides, but somehow it -resulted in my signing a two-year lease for the doubled -space. And this time I didn’t even need a co-signer. My -landlord felt sure my success was as good as made.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I firmly believed I was on my way, too. I had suffered -and nearly broken more than once, but the dream -was working. I was building a store with love in it. -I wasn’t merely selling books—I was teaching. And in -my awesome love for books, every package of fresh, new -volumes, cold and virginal to the touch, shining with invitation, -returned my devotion with a sensuous thrill. In -discovering this world, I felt I had discovered myself. I -had been tested, and the future was open before me.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Of course, I had no money. But I was young, my nervous -system could take endless punishment, my stomach -could digest anything, and I could sleep on a rock. Beholden -to no one, I hit upon a principle: If an idea is psychologically -sound, it must be economically feasible.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>Now I was sure. The breakthrough was more than the -penetration of a wall into another room. It would be a -breakthrough for my heart and a new beginning in my -life.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The first thing to do was to bring in a building contractor. -He surveyed the situation and assured me that the -job was simple—two men could do it in a week. It would -cost about one thousand dollars.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Well what about it? Of course all of my profits were -tied up in increased stock, but I was certainly not going -to let money check my enthusiasm at this point. The time -had come, I decided, to see about a bank. Every day -while riding the bus I saw signs offering me money on my -signature only. Do you want a new car? Need to pay old -bills? Buy a car? Buy a refrigerator? Buy anything? -See your friendly banker. What really decent fellows -these bankers must be!</p> - -<p class='c014'>I had also been told at the separation center that as a -former soldier I was entitled to certain kinds of help from -a grateful government, which included financial backing -in any promising business venture. I could not see anything -standing seriously in the way of my borrowing a -thousand dollars for my breakthrough.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Therefore, bright and early on a fine morning, I went -to the bank. I had dressed myself with care. My tie was -straight and my shirt clean. I wore my only suit. My shoes -were shined. I had shaved carefully and brushed my hair -with purpose. After all, I reasoned, a banker is a banker—you -must respect him. I had never known a banker before -in my life, and I scare easily.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>When I sat down with the bank officer, I was glad I had -taken care to make a good impression, for he looked me -over while I stated my business. Apparently his mind -was not on my attire, however.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Do you carry life insurance?” he said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“No, sir.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Do you have a car?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“No, sir.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Do you have stocks or bonds?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I felt slightly ill. No one in my entire life had ever mentioned -stocks or bonds to me.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Then what will you do for collateral?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Again a word no one had ever used in front of me.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I tried another tack. “I believe I ought to tell you more -about myself.” Then my voice dried up. Tell him what? -That when I was in college, I learned the <i>Ode to the West -Wind</i> by heart? That I believed in the impossible? That -I would rather die than fail to meet an obligation to his -bank? It would never do ... not for this man with the -pale, hard eyes.</p> - -<p class='c014'>He was not unkind to me. He pointed to a little, old -lady across the floor and said, “Now suppose that woman -making a deposit were told that I made a loan to you of -one thousand dollars without the security of any collateral, -do you know what she could do? She could have -me fired for jeopardizing her savings.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I didn’t have the heart to ask about the happy signs in -the buses, but grasped at one last straw. “Isn’t it a fact,” -I said, “that the government will guarantee this kind of -loan if I can show justification for it?”</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>He admitted this was correct. “But we’d rather not -make that kind of loan,” he said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>That was twelve years ago. Today the banks are generous -and I can get a loan without shining my shoes or -straightening my tie. The answer is terribly simple. Banks -only loan money to those who already have it.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I walked defeated along Michigan Avenue under the -cloudless sky. It was all so simple, logical, and perfectly -mechanical. I just couldn’t make something out of nothing, -no matter how strong my will or how deep my faith. -I had to have money.</p> - -<p class='c014'>As I walked, a comment of my father’s flitted through -my mind: “Some men make it early in life, but you, my -son, will make it a little late in life. But you’ll make it.” I -said to myself, “Look, nothing has changed. Nothing at -all. If you don’t expand, what of it? Are you beginning -to think of the kind of success that feeds the infantile -longings of so many adults? What’s wrong with what -you’ve accomplished?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I remembered going to my father to talk about college. -“Go to college,” he told me. “It is very important to get -a college education. I’m right behind you.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“It takes money to go to college,” I said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Money?” he said. “What fool can’t go to college with -money? The idea is to make it without money!”</p> - -<p class='c014'>And so I did.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I was feeling better when I reached the shop, but was -still so deep in my soliloquy that I rested my head on the -desk and did not even hear Ben Kartman’s steps when he -came up the stairs.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>“What’s the trouble, Stuart?” he said, standing in the -doorway looking at me.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I went to the bank,” I told him. “They turned me -down. I’m a poor credit risk and they never heard of -World War II, believe me. So there’ll be no expansion.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“How much will the construction cost?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“A thousand dollars.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“But you’ll need some more money for stock and to fix -the place up, won’t you?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I guess so.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Well?” He began to laugh while I talked my problem -out. Finally he stopped laughing and I stopped talking.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Get your hat and come with me,” he said. “I’ll get you -the money.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>We went to the bank together. Ben signed the notes -with his house as collateral. I got the money and the -breakthrough began. But I owed the bank two thousand -dollars! I no longer slept so well.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Anyway, down went the partition and the Seven Stairs -expanded. Joe Reiner, then sales representative for -Crown Publishers, happened in and, observing that I -needed more book shelving, took me to see Dorothy Gottlieb, -who was moving her Gold Coast <a id='corr34.32'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='book store'>bookstore</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_34.32'>bookstore</a></span> to the -Ambassador East Hotel. She had plenty of shelving to -sell.</p> - -<p class='c014'>On a Sunday morning, Joe and I got a mover to bring -in the new fixtures. We came puffing and grunting in -with the shelving and nearly annihilated my sick ballet -dancer, who was supposed to have moved out a week before. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>He lay on a mattress in the middle of the floor and, -upon seeing us, let out a yell and drew the blankets up -to his chin, crying, “What do you think this is? A Frank -Capra movie? Here I lie on my virtuous couch, too ill to -move, and you...!”</p> - -<p class='c015'>I developed several successful techniques for selling -books. For example, when I read a book that I liked very -much, I would send out a post card to everyone I believed -might be interested in it also. There is not much room on -a post card, so the words describing the value of the book -had to be selected carefully. I avoided the dust jacket -phrases. “Great,” “brilliant,” and “exciting” won’t cut any -mustard. You must know your book and know your mailing -list.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Another technique was the use of the phone call—a -very delicate tool that must not be employed indiscriminately. -The call must, first of all, be made to someone who -you are reasonably sure won’t resent it. And you must -know exactly what to say and say it quickly.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When a friend came into the store, I might greet him -with “Ah, guter brudder, glad you stopped in. I have a -book for you.” Or, “Here is a new Mozart recording you -must hear.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>To have a successful book store means also to be a slave -to detail. This I found killing. Often I would struggle for -hours to track down a title someone had requested, go to -the trouble of ordering it (more often than not on a -money in advance basis), only to find that the customer -no longer wanted the book. Or I would special order a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>book, run like a demented fool over to the customer’s office -to deliver it personally, and discover that the wrong -book had been ordered in the first place. You could pretend -to yourself that this kind of service would endear you -to the customer and cement a faithful relationship, but it -didn’t always work that way.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I worked hard, but my customer relations were not always -perfect. I demanded that customers buy books for -the same reasons that I sold them—out of a serious regard -for greatness. I could not stand having myself or -my books and records treated as a toy by the jaded and -self-satisfied. And I was a jealous god. Today I know better, -yet I instinctively back away from a customer who -comes into the store carrying a package from another -bookseller.</p> - -<p class='c014'>But well or poorly done, it took all kinds of doing: typing -post cards, making phone calls, washing and sweeping -the floor, cleaning the windows and shelves, running -to the post office, delivering books, and talking in the -meanwhile on the mind of Spinoza, the beauty of the Mozart -D Minor Quartet, the narrative power of Hemingway, -or the value of <i>The Caine Mutiny</i>, which on first appearance -was slow to catch on.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Still, the business was developing. Each day I met -someone new. Each day presented new challenges to -one’s strength and intuition and pure capacity for survival. -Around this struggle there developed a convivial -circle which was ample reward for anything. On any Saturday -afternoon it might include Nelson Algren, Jack -Conroy, Studs Terkel, Ira Blitzsten, Dr. Harvey Lewis, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>Marvin Spira, Evelyn Mayer, David Brooks and Dr. Robert -Kohrman, holding forth on an inexhaustible range of -subjects, filling the air with tobacco smoke, drinking -fiercely strong coffee from sometimes dirty cups, and -munching salami and apples. The world of the Seven -Stairs was beginning to form.</p> - -<p class='c015'>For months I practically made a career of selling Nelson -Algren’s neglected volume of short stories, <i>The Neon -Wilderness</i>. Nelson had already received considerable -acclaim for the book, as well as his already published novels, -<i>Somebody in Boots</i> and <i>Never Come Morning</i>, but -short stories don’t sell (it is said). In any event, these -stories represent some of Algren’s finest work (which at -its best is very fine indeed), and I placed the book in the -hands of everyone who came into the shop. I sold hundreds -of copies. Then to keep the book alive, we held -periodic parties. One month we would call it Nelson’s -birthday, another month the birthday of the publication -of the book, still another the birthday of the book itself. -We invariably invited many of the same people, along -with new prospects. At one point, Ira Blitzsten was -moved to remark that he didn’t want Nelson to autograph -his copy as he wanted the distinction of being the only -person in Chicago with an unsigned copy.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Algren is a tall, lanky individual with mussed blond -hair and a sensitive face, sometimes tight and drawn, -<a id='corr37.31'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='some times'>sometimes</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_37.31'>sometimes</a></span> relaxed. In those days he wore steel rimmed spectacles -and Clark Street clothes—a pin stripe suit, a garish -shirt, a ridiculous tie, in spite of which he still had a fairly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>conservative bearing. Once he even wore a bow tie that -lit up.</p> - -<p class='c014'>He is a quiet man. You sense he has a temper, but he -seldom uses it. He is an authority on the argot of the “wild -side of the street,” and I never heard him utter a vulgar -word. He has the faculty of putting others at ease. When -he talks with you, he gives you a remarkable singleness of -attention. Even if the room is overflowing with people, -you know that he is listening only to you.</p> - -<p class='c014'>He is a loner who reveals nothing of his private life. In -fact, he never gave me his address. When he is introduced -to someone, he shakes hands and nods his head at the -same time. He gives you the simultaneous impression of -understanding and remoteness. You are not surprised to -find that his humor is sardonic.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Nelson Algren and Jack Conroy could perform a remarkable -duet on the subject of James T. Farrell, Conroy -in a broad Irish accent, Algren in a clipped, half muttering -manner. I never learned the personal source of their -animosity, but the name of Farrell had the magic to channel -all their hostilities and frustrations into a fountain of -pure malice. It was wonderful.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Sometimes Nelson brought his mother. Sometimes he -would bring with him one of the girls related to the novel -he was then writing, <i>The Man with the Golden Arm</i>. One -night Nelson took me to “the wild side.” We entered -a Clark Street tavern, a long, bare hall perhaps 150 feet -long and thirty feet wide. Along one wall stretched a -huge bar. It was a busy evening—every stool was occupied. -We crossed the wooden floor to the other side of -the room where there were rows of small tables with folding -<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>chairs set around them. Before we were seated, one -of the men at the bar slugged his woman in the mouth, -and the two fell off their stools, blood gushing, and -landed, one on top of the other on the floor. The bartenders -came around and dragged them out, pitching -them into the street.</p> - -<p class='c014'>A moment later one of the bartenders was at our table -asking for our order. He knew Nelson, and they chatted -easily. I was, frankly, sniffing, for as the stale beer smell -of the place settled, I had a sense of being literally in a -zoo.</p> - -<p class='c014'>As I looked about, I observed a mesh of wire fencing -across the section of the ceiling beneath which we were -sitting. I got up and inspected. There above us were live -monkeys sitting on a bar behind the fence. I sat down -and asked Nelson what this meant.</p> - -<p class='c014'>He said, “Wait and see.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>The tavern din was terrible, a demonic blend of shouting, -laughing, swearing, name-calling—the human cries -at inhuman pitch. It was out of a Gorky novel.</p> - -<p class='c014'>We drank several beers and waited, talking very little. -Nelson’s face seemed fixed in a slight smile of playful disdain. -It was impossible to say of what.</p> - -<p class='c014'>My bafflement was intensified when two men walked -in and approached the place where we were sitting. They -pulled a ladder from the wall, climbed the steps, and -opened the door of one of the cages. One of the men took -a monkey by the leather strap attached to its collar, -placed it on his back, and climbed down the ladder. He -walked to the far end of the room, opened a door, went in, -and closed the door after him and his companion.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>I sat rooted to my seat, failing to understand what I -had seen. Was this in some way the meaning behind the -phrase, “a monkey on his back”? I knew that whatever -was going on here could scarcely be an idle zoological -experiment, yet somehow I felt an impenetrable wall between -my innocence and the full possibilities of human -depravity.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I looked once more at the people in the tavern, and all -at once it was with different eyes. I no longer saw them as -“dregs” and “strays.” I saw something terrible, humiliating, -too outrageous to form into words.</p> - -<p class='c014'>What is happening? Who are these people? Are they, -indeed, people? But am I? Have I an identity?</p> - -<p class='c014'>My smugness melted and the distaste I had felt for -what I saw now angered me. I had come into this place -small, mean, and superior, a cad and a fop, the epitome of -what I had long viewed with scorn in others.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I had a better notion of what Nelson was seeing and -the nature of his protest. He had shown me a world where -people lived without choice or destination.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I lived for days with this nightmare, asking myself why -I should feel guilt for those who no longer feel responsible -for themselves. Then it occurred to me that the question -was never one of guilt, but only of love. The agony exists -regardless of the setting. The lack of love is not alone on -Clark Street.</p> - -<p class='c013'>To be successful, an autographing cocktail party must -be planned with consummate skill and attention to detail. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>You must leave nothing to chance. You may not pretend -that everything will work out satisfactorily at the last minute. -It will not. And because I respected writers so much, -I tried to guard them against the ultimate humiliation of -sitting at a table before a pile of their own books, with no -buyers.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I adopted the following procedure: First, get from the -author his own list of names—people he would like personally -to invite to his party. Phone each of them, or at -least write a post card asking if they are interested in receiving -a signed copy of the book. Next, send out the invitation -to all your charge accounts, then check the mailing -list for people you think will be interested in the book. -Avoid freeloaders. Invite the press and the literary critics -and try to write a short human interest story for the columnists. -In short, build up as big an advance as possible.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Furthermore, don’t throw a skimpy party. People carry -away impressions, and the only <a id='corr41.20'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='inpression'>impression</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_41.20'>impression</a></span> you can afford -is a bountiful one. It is said that all the world loves a lover, -but one thing you can be sure of is that they love a winner. -So avoid failure by planning against it, and then pray. -Pray that it won’t rain or turn freezing cold, that the pipes -won’t break or the electricity be turned off. Pray that -you may fulfill your multiple responsibilities; to the author, -the publisher, and your own hopes for continuing -operation.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It seemed natural that one of our greatest cocktail parties -should be given for Nelson Algren upon publication -of <i>The Man with the Golden Arm</i>. Yet behind the scenes -things went very oddly, and for a time it was hard to tell -<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>whether either the author or the publisher wanted the -party—or the large downtown department store, either, -which entered the picture as a prospect for the event.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Anyway, it took place at the Seven Stairs. Ken McCormick, -Editor-in-Chief of Doubleday, Nelson’s publisher, -flew into Chicago. I can see him still, loaded with books -in both arms, carrying them from one room to another.</p> - -<p class='c014'>There was high excitement—newspaper photographers -and an unbelievable crush of people. It all began to tell -on Nelson’s nerves and mine. It seemed to me he was writing -too long in each book, and at times he would change -his mind in the middle of an inscription and ask for another -copy (to Nelson such revision was a literary exercise, -to me a spoiled copy was a financial loss). The line -of guests seemed endless and I began to develop an active -dislike for people, for money, for the whole business. -Besides, it was getting awfully hot. Nelson and Ken and -I removed our coats. Nelson even gave up writing long -paragraphs in each book. I tried keeping a cool drink at -his side at all times. It seemed to help.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was a great but strange party. Nelson was a success, -and in a way I was, too. And this altered things enormously. -It had never occurred to me how people attach -themselves to the rescue phantasy, how easily failure inspires -love, how differently even the semblance of success -affects relationships. All at once, people who had only -wanted to help me became hypersensitive and found me -snubbing them. And I was feeling a new sensitivity also: -“You can’t destroy me in the process of buying from me.” -It was the beginning of a new struggle.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>The last guest finally left. Ken McCormick was a very -happy publisher. I swept all interior confusions aside -and counted up the books. We had sold one thousand -copies of <i>The Man with the Golden Arm</i> in a single night! -It was almost too much for Ken—he had to see it to believe -it. And we were all dead tired. Just as I was about -to turn the last light switch before we went out the door, -I remembered and asked Nelson to autograph a book for -me. As he bent down to write, I could see Bob Kohrman -and myself sitting on the sand dunes reading the galleys of -the book. I remembered conversations with Nelson and -Jack Conroy in regard to the title, and Jack’s needling of -Nelson when the advances were running out, saying, “Any -day now you’ll be begging to come to work on the encyclopedia” -(the constant drudgery to which Jack has given -most of his working hours for two decades.)</p> - -<p class='c014'>Nelson, crouching over the book, wrote: “For Stuart -and Jennie. The best in the West (as well as the South, -North and East). Because he’s the boy with the golden -wife—and she’s the girl with the golden guy.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>For there was indeed now a Jennie, a golden girl with -whose short life mine was now linked in a more responsible -relationship than I had ever imagined I would assume—a -decisive part in the unimaginable future building before -me.</p> - -<p class='c015'>We were all on our way now, but Jack Conroy was the -last to leave. He had waited until the very end to say, -“Papa, it was a fine party. I’m proud of you and your efforts -for Nelson.” They were all gone now, the columnists, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>the celebrities, the crowd that stretched in a file of twos -almost to the corner drug store. Only Jack Conroy, a huge -and gentle man with his “Hello, Papa,” the extended -hand, and the tiny stare in the blue, grey-flecked eyes, -always waiting, wondering how you are going to accept -his greeting.</p> - -<p class='c014'>This is the wild, humorous, tender man who gave -Tennessee Williams his first important break, who first -published Richard Wright, who wrote a <a id='corr44.10'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='best-seller'>bestseller</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_44.10'>bestseller</a></span> thirty -years ago that is highly regarded by the few who remember -it, and who is rated as the second most popular American -author in all of Russia, one below Melville and one -above Poe.<a id='r1'></a><a href='#f1' class='c016'><sup>[1]</sup></a> His only material reward: a purported fortune -in rubles which he has no intention of ever collecting.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When Jack edited <i>Midland Humor</i>, a discerning anthology -published in 1947, he was late to his own party at -the Seven Stairs. When he arrived, I was shaken, as I always -am, by his look of, “Will I be scolded? Will I be forgiven?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>He can be the most jocular of men, and the most understanding. -One afternoon over coffee at the Seven Stairs -he reported at hilarious lengths on the drinking prowess of -his friend, Burl Ives, who was then doubling between a -cabaret engagement at the Blackstone Hotel and the vaudeville -show at the Chicago Theater. I was in the depth -of my psychiatric period and suggested that help might -be in order.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>“He doesn’t seem unhappy about it,” said Jack, innocently.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Today Conroy, one of the most talented men in American -letters, quietly stands and looks. When he talks, he -stares directly at you, or turns his head entirely away -and speaks to empty space.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I think he is the most honest man I have ever met: in -his intent, in his appraisal of others and their writing, and -in his own bereavement. As the gait grows slower, the shyness -becomes more pronounced and the gaze extends -away farther and farther.</p> - -<p class='c014'>He has been called the Samuel Johnson of the Chicago -South Side. The designation fits in many ways—the -large physical build, the forceful expression and comprehensive -knowledge, the long toil in the compilation of -reference works—and in some ways not at all. He has -been many things, at times even a wandering player, and -his physiognomy suggests a somewhat more cerebral -William Bendix.</p> - -<p class='c014'>He can provide the most wonderful encouragement to -others. But his own burden is lack of time—lack of time -for all his obligations, for all he should do. Publisher -after publisher offers him handsome advances, and he declines -them. He knows he would not fulfill the obligation.</p> - -<p class='c014'>We were at lunch not long ago. “I’m going down to -Mexico on my vacation,” he said. “I’m going to visit Motley.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I had known the tragic eyes of Willard Motley, whose -<i>Knock on Any Door</i> did not fill our friend, Algren, with -any particular enthusiasm.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“You know, that Nelson is mean,” Jack said. “He wrote -<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>some nasty things about me in the <i>Reporter</i>. Did you see -that?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“No, I didn’t.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Well, he did. We used to see a lot of each other.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>We walked back to the office building where Jack does -his faithful, painstaking hack work.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I’ll drop you a line from Mexico,” he said. “I’ll tell -Motley that you’re writing a book. Take care of yourself. -I’ll see you when I get back.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>The grey-blue eyes were suddenly swollen with sadness, -and the voice stretched in a heavier drawl. I wished -with all my heart that things would work out well for Jack -Conroy.</p> - -<p class='c015'>The relationship between genius and disaster is too -deep for me to comprehend. I do know that genius is -never made; it is only discovered. There has to be a front -runner. The notion that genius will out, regardless of circumstances, -is simply to ignore the nature of genius, which -must center upon itself in order to function. I sometimes -think that the energy expended in creating a really -imaginative work drains the humanity out of the artist. -If his personal life suffers as a consequence, his business -acumen is even more incidental.</p> - -<p class='c014'><i>The Man with the Golden Arm</i> was Algren’s great commercial -success, and the harvest was reaped by others. -The story is told, or at any rate that part which has any -bearing on this discourse, in a classic letter from Nelson to -Otto Preminger, producer of the movie which bore the -title, if not the imprint, of the novel:</p> -<div class='lg-container-r c017'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>Hotel Vermillion</div> - <div class='line'>6162 West Hollywood Blvd.</div> - <div class='line'>Los Angeles, California</div> - <div class='line'>February 16, 1955</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-l c018'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Mr. Otto Preminger</div> - <div class='line'>Columbia Studios</div> - <div class='line'>1438 Gower Street</div> - <div class='line'>Los Angeles, California</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c019'>Dear Mr. Preminger:</p> - -<p class='c019'>I am advised by your office that arrangements are now under -way to award me the sum of two hundred and three dollars -and seventy-eight cents, spent by myself to proceed, upon your -invitation, to the city of Los Angeles. I find this gesture most -generous, but am compelled to inform you that this money was -spent to no purpose to which you are member. Thank you all -the same.</p> - -<p class='c019'>I am further instructed that arrangements are also under way -to compensate me, at the rate of thirty-five dollars per diem, -for listening to the expression of certain thoughts, after a -manner of speaking, by yourself. These occurred between -January 27th and 31st inclusively. But since these were all, -like the novel about which you wove them, the property of -other persons living or dead, I cannot in conscience honor -them by acceptance of such compensation. Again I am grateful. -And again I am instructed that a check for the sum of seven -hundred and fifty dollars, in addition to the above items, is due -me from yourself. I assume this may well be an effort to repay -me for some twelve pages of double-spaced typing I achieved -in an effort to discover what in God’s name you were talking -about. Since these pages served only to confuse you further, -no moneys are rightfully due me. Yet your thoughtfulness -does not cease to move me.</p> - -<p class='c019'>Should this concern for me derive from a simple and heartfelt -<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>gratitude for a diversion afforded you for a full week by “an -interesting person,” as you so happily put it when the moment -came for parting, I do not feel you are so much indebted. -Although I did not find in you an interesting person, I did discover -one of arrogance approaching the uncanny. Upon the -basis of mutual amusement, therefore, I am the debtor. And -since you are decidedly more uncanny than I am interesting, I -must at a rough estimate, owe you close to forty dollars.</p> - -<p class='c019'>And forward this sum confident of your satisfaction in alms -from any quarter, however small, and remain</p> - -<div class='lg-container-r c020'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>your obedient servant</div> - <div class='line in4'>Nelson Algren</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c021'>“He jests at scars who never felt a wound.”</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span> - <h3 class='c005'><span class='xxlarge'>5</span><br>The Day My Accountant Cried</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c013'>I dislike being interrupted when I am interesting someone -in a book. One late afternoon while I was engaged -in making a sale, my accountant tiptoed over and stood -close to me. I moved away, but he came close again. I -frowned; generally that was enough to frighten him. But -not this time.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I must speak with you,” he said. “It’s very important.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Well, what is it?” I said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>His thin shoulders sagged and when he finally spoke, -his voice contributed to the general impression of a small, -furry animal in a trap. “You are bankrupt,” he squeaked.</p> - -<p class='c014'>My accountant was a limp rag of a man with a lined, -ashen face and a bald head spotted with a few patches -of nondescript hair. The color of his eyes was an odd mixture, -neither grey nor brown, and he never met your -gaze, but looked down at your feet or to one side. He -wore a grey suit with a vest that had specially made -pockets to contain his pharmaceutical supplies, including -<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>not only pill boxes and bottles, but his own spoon and a -collapsible cup.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Although he was very neat, he bit his fingernails to the -quick. Still, I found his hands fascinating when he added -up columns of figures. His figure 8’s and his 7’s had a special -quality about them, a precision bordering upon -elegance.</p> - -<p class='c014'>He came into the store once a month, went over my -bookkeeping, prepared the necessary forms for my signature, -and left. Sometimes he would linger for just a few -minutes looking at titles on the bookshelves. Then he -would turn, shrug his shoulders, and depart.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When he looked up and informed me tragically, “You -are bankrupt,” the words were utterly meaningless to me. -“Wait until I finish,” I said, waving him aside, “then we’ll -talk.” His distress was pitiful, yet I couldn’t help laughing.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Talk we did. He showed me the stack of unpaid statements, -then my bank balance, then the cost of my inventory. -There was no doubt about it: I was bankrupt. Those -pretty 8’s and magnetic 7’s proved it. The ledger sheets -with the long red and blue lines and the numbers so small -and so beautifully shaped within the spaces spoke the -awful truth. But somehow this truth meant nothing to -me, except strangely to remind me of a story told by my -father about a man who lost a leg but ran on as though he -still possessed two.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I looked at my accountant in silence. He sat next to -me, his squeaky voice now still, his red-rimmed eyes peering -at me and at the evidence lying before us on the desk, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>along with a neat pile of Kleenex sheets, a spoon, and a -bottle of pink medicine. My accountant’s adam’s apple -began moving silently in his throat and as I observed this, -I placed my man as a literary character with whom I -was well familiar, the awful little man in <i>The Magic -Mountain</i> who mashed all his food together, bent his head -over it, and shoveled and pushed the mess into his mouth. -Again I began to laugh helplessly, and my accountant -kept saying, “Not funny, not funny, remember—you are -bankrupt.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“What do you suggest?” I finally asked.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“There is not much <i>to</i> suggest,” he said. “The books -show bankruptcy. File for bankruptcy and call it a day.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Just like that?” I said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“The figures are correct,” he said. “To me this means -you must go out of business.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“But what does it mean to me? I love this business and -want to remain in it. I’ve spent three years building it -and look at the progress I’ve made!”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“It can’t be helped,” he said. “Business is business. -Your publishers are not sentimental. When they send you -books, they want to be paid.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Of course I intended to pay, I assured him. But I -couldn’t pay everyone all at once. And if I was serving -as an agent for their wares, couldn’t some of them wait? -Or couldn’t I go to the bank for another loan?</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Impossible,” he said. “Furthermore, no one cares -about your good work or your bad work. Your problem is -that you haven’t the money to meet your bills.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Strangely enough—immorally perhaps—it had never -<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>occurred to me that this was my problem. Finally I said, -“As a favor to me, could you pretend that you hadn’t -come here this evening? Could you forget this conversation? -As I see it, nothing has changed whatsoever. So -far, the only person threatening me with bankruptcy is -yourself. It seems to me that if you will just stop talking -about it, I am no longer bankrupt.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>My accountant poured himself a cupful of pink medicine, -smacked his lips, and burst into tears. He assured -me that I was partially responsible for his ulcerated stomach. -And he told me of his fate ... the three times he -had tried to pass the C.P.A. examinations ... the scorn -and derision to which he was subjected by fools like me -... the plight of his wife and his children ... and his -simple allegiance to the truth of numbers.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I began to feel terribly guilty. What had I done to him -by not breaking beneath the impact of his shocking pronouncement? -“Please don’t cry,” I said. “Nothing is -really changed, actually. I just don’t believe in figures. I -don’t believe in bankruptcy. I still believe in people, in -myself, in my work. Sometimes I wake up in the morning -feeling joyous and sometimes I go to bed feeling wretched, -but that’s life. However, it is entirely my fault for making -you cry. I meant to take you seriously, but I have a complete -contempt for figures.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I brought him some water in his own antiseptic cup -and told him the story of the Little Prince and the Fox -and how the Fox made the Prince repeat: “Remember always—what -is essential is invisible to the eye. It is the -time you have wasted on your rose that makes her so -<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>important. Love means care and labor and respect. You are -responsible for what you love.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I observed a different accountant sitting before me. In -the course of my resistance to the destruction of my dream, -I had apparently turned upon him in a way that was completely -novel, neither scorning him nor using him, but -speaking to him as a member of the human race.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I’ve never done this before,” he admitted, wiping his -eyes. “But your attitude in the face of certain failure just -broke me up. And here I am ... owning two houses, a -piece of a hotel, and some stocks and bonds ... more -money than you’ll probably ever see. Yet I realize how -very little I have ... on the other side of the ledger.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I was astounded that he was not angry, found a copy -of <i>The Little Prince</i> to give him, and as he left called, -“You’ve forgotten your spoon and the medicine.” He -hesitated a moment, but did not turn back.</p> - -<p class='c014'>My accountant never again told me I was bankrupt. -Several months passed before I next saw him, but since -I continued to ignore the “figure” side of the business, his -absence did not disturb me. Then one bright and lovely -morning he came in wearing a fresh, newly pressed suit -and ... no vest!</p> - -<p class='c014'>“How marvelous!” I said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“No vest, ever again,” he assured me.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“What happened?” I asked.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Well, you remember when I left? I still didn’t believe -you, but I read <i>The Little Prince</i> that evening. I used to -think that facts and the gathering of facts were the only -basis for living. But I realize now it is a much harder job. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>It is easier to be hypochondriac ... or a slave to the -logic of the marketplace ... or anything but one’s self.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Does experience teach? Is it possible that a human -being may be altered or set free through the written -word? Are books important? Is it important to be a bookseller? -Even though you are going broke? I had been -turning like a worm in an apple for so long that it seemed a -little more turning could scarcely hurt me.</p> - -<p class='c015'>One night I was awakened by the insistent ringing of -the telephone.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Can you come down to the restaurant at once, son?” -It was Ric Riccardo’s voice.</p> - -<p class='c014'>In less than an hour, I was seated in a booth with Ric, -the late Henry Beaudeaux, then art critic for the <i>Chicago -Daily News</i>, and Michael Seller, a psychoanalyst, with -whose professional world I had just begun an acquaintance -through interesting circumstances which I shall soon -describe.</p> - -<p class='c014'>After I had sipped my coffee, Ric smiled thinly and -said, “Mike, tell him.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“How would you like to go into the publishing business?” -Mike said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Then Ric took over. Chicago needed a publishing -house, he argued. He was going to put up the money -and establish the organization. But we would publish -only Chicago talent regardless of their métier ... art, -poetry, novels, whatever. He continued for perhaps an -hour in this vein, dwelling upon the resources of talent -which existed in the Chicago area and the absurdity -<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>of depending on New York to “discover” it. Finally, I -wanted to know where I fitted in.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I supply the money,” Ric said. “You set up the office, -start the company going, get the writers. Tomorrow we’ll -meet with my lawyer.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>He didn’t ask whether I liked the idea. He knew I was -crazy about it and would work day and night to see it -through.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Have you a name for the firm?” I said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“We’ll call it the BrentR Press,” Ric said solemnly. And -with enthusiastic handclasps over this peculiarly ranch -house designation, we parted.</p> - -<p class='c015'>Our first book was to be an art book titled, <i>Eleven Plus -Four</i>, principally to indicate the number of drawings to -be found in the book. The drawings by John Foote were -considerably more astounding than the title, and Sydney -J. Harris, columnist for the <i>Chicago Daily News</i>, wrote as -literate and perceptive an introduction as one is likely to -encounter.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Ric and I worked like a pair of furies on the project. -My association with the enterprise had a promotional -value that helped business at the store and I felt certain -that the way ahead lay open and that hard work was all -that was required.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When Ric gave me a check for $5,000.00 and said, “Go -to a bank and open an account,” I headed straight out to -find the vice president of the bank where I had but a few -years earlier been turned down for a loan. He was gone, -but in his place I found a banker who was also a man.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>Following this successful encounter, I rushed back to -show Ric the receipted deposit slip. He laughed and took -me up to his studio. He pointed to an army footlocker and -said, “Open it.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I did, and the sight of its contents overwhelmed me. It -was full of money—currency of every denomination.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“When you need money, come upstairs and help yourself,” -he said. “Only tell me afterwards.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I wondered what my accountant would think. Even -after his reformation, this kind of profligacy must have -been beyond his comprehension.</p> - -<p class='c015'>At first nobody talked about it. Ric had become ill and -he could not be seen. When there were urgent decisions -to make, I was told, “Make them yourself.” But I was not -sure of myself, I explained. The answer was the same. -Ric was not to be disturbed under any circumstances.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Two months passed before I was permitted to go to the -hospital to see him. He lay curled up in bed like a child, -incredibly thin, the close-cropped hair completely grey, -the skin waxen. I sat beside him for a long time before he -unwound his body and looked at me.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Go ahead and work, son,” he said. “You can do everything. -When I get better we’ll talk about the book. If you -need anything, go see Charley. I’ll call you when I can.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I left feeling certain that I would never see Ric alive. -I called Michael Seller and asked him to level with me. “It -was his heart,” Mike said. In his judgment, it was just a -question of time.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I hung up feeling that my world was coming to an end. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>If Ric was wounded, I was, too. If his survival was in -doubt, I questioned my own. Every pattern I touched, no -matter how vital, seemed to resolve itself into my own lostness.</p> - -<p class='c014'>But we were all wrong, doctors and friends alike. Ric -came back strong. To be sure, the bags about the eyes -were more pronounced, the skin hung a bit loosely about -the face and neck. But one had only to look into the eyes -to see that the fire was still there. Ric was all right, loving -life, loving people, giving joy to all who came into his -presence.</p> - -<p class='c014'>There was a new mark upon him, however, of increased -gentleness. He spoke gently, moved gently, dressed -gently, even ate gently. When we played chess, it was no -longer with the same intensity. He would even interrupt -the game to talk about the nature of God. He was becoming -non-attached.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Finally the book came off the press. It was a beautiful -job of production, and everyone whose name was known -in Chicago seemed to have come to the autographing -party in the spacious rooms above the restaurant. Ric sat -at a table surveying the scene, and couldn’t have cared -less. He was gracious to everyone. He nodded his approval -at all the checks I had received for advance orders. He -seemed pleased with my enthusiasm for success. But -something had gone out of him—at least so far as ardor -for parties and promotion was concerned.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Ric died one week later, and with him many dreams, -the BrentR Press among them.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span> - <h3 class='c005'><span class='xxlarge'>6</span><br>The Man with the Golden Couch</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c013'>I am a great believer in the theory of “attractiveness.” -This theory is a way of describing a commonly experienced -relationship between external events and what -you feel in your heart. Something inside tells you that -you are “ready,” and then out of the world of events happenings -begin to occur which seem exclusively yours. The -conditions were there all the time, but your heart wasn’t -ready to accept them—hence the “attractiveness” in the -world did not reveal itself. But when your heart is ready, -whatever it is ready for will be fulfilled.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Perhaps the first step in this fulfillment was my marriage -to Jennie, a girl with a strong, fine face and long -brow, a generous soul, and a brilliant talent. In spite of -the growing fame of the Seven Stairs, we faced a hard -struggle for existence. New people were coming to buy -books, mink coats mingling with hand-me-downs, but I -made only grudging concessions to what many of them -wished to buy. I refused to carry how-to-do-it books, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>occult books, books written and published by charlatans, -books pandering to junk-eaters. I wouldn’t even “special -order” junk.</p> - -<p class='c014'>While I was limiting my practice to the least profitable -aspects of the book business, Jennie’s personal income as -a staff pianist at a television station was cut off completely -when the management eliminated most of the musicians -from the payroll. So she came to help at the Seven Stairs.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Late one evening when I was alone in the store, an unlikely -customer came in, walking with a slightly swaying -motion and conveying a general attitude of, “You can’t -help me. I’m on an inspection tour. Stay away.” An effort -to engage him in conversation met with stiff resistance, -so I retreated unhappily behind my desk. Finally -my man came over to the desk with a small volume of -Rilke’s poetry and asked whether I carried charge accounts. -When he saw me hesitate, he dipped into his -pocket and paid in cash, stripping the single dollar bills -from a sizeable bank roll, a demonstration which added -further to my resentment of Ira Blitzsten.</p> - -<p class='c014'>With the exception of Ben Kartman, no one played a -more decisive part in shaping the future of my business -than Ira. In spite of the initial impression he made on -me, and my obvious reaction, he continued to come into -the store, and we became friends. He was an amazing -reader with an excellent library of books and recordings, -and he had an uncle, he told me, who was a lover of opera -and might be persuaded to buy books and records from -me.</p> - -<p class='c014'>One morning I received a phone call from the uncle, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>Dr. Lionel Blitzsten, who asked if I had a recording of -the Verdi Requiem with Pinza. It was a rich, full, commanding -voice, and I was glad to be able to reply that I -did. He suggested that I bring it over immediately.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Fortunately, he lived not far from the shop, but in a -world of opulence such as I had never encountered. On -arrival, I was sent by the maid to wait upstairs in the -master bedroom. The room was fitted out like an 18th -century drawing room. One wall was entirely covered -with books. Later I discovered that because of illness, he -did most of his entertaining here. I waited nervously, and -noticing money lying on top of the dresser, retreated across -the thick Turkish rug to the threshold and stayed there.</p> - -<p class='c014'>He came up the stairs quickly—a man in a hurry, I -thought. But I was unprepared for his appearance, a kind -of giant panda, very short and bald, with perhaps a few -grey hairs straying about the temples, and wearing awesomely -thick glasses (he had been going blind for years). -His breathing was difficult (his lungs had a way of constantly -filling up from his exertions) and I was later informed -that his heart, too, was giving out. Platoons of -doctors had struggled to keep him alive over the years.</p> - -<p class='c014'>What was really arresting (and somewhat terrifying) -about this fat, puffing little man was the face. Above the -glasses, the skull seemed all forehead; beneath, the clean-shaven -skin was baby pink and the mouth shaped like a -rosebud and just as red. That was it, the mouth ... and -when he spoke, the voice was musical, no longer deep, but -rather high in pitch.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Our initial transaction was completed in a moment. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>The Doctor looked at the records, asked the price, made -his way to the dresser, gave me two ten dollar bills, -thanked me, and vanished as quickly as he had appeared. -I walked down the stairs and left quietly, but my heart -was pounding.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was several weeks before Dr. Blitzsten called again, -very late in the evening. I recognized the sing-song quality -characteristic of his speech as he asked for several -books. I had all of them except the one he particularly -wanted ... he said he needed it to refresh himself with -a certain passage.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Well, never mind,” he said, “I’ll get the book elsewhere -tomorrow. Would you mind awfully delivering the others -tonight?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Again the maid let me in and sent me to the bedroom. -I waited in the doorway until the Doctor motioned me in -and asked me to deposit the books on a small table beside -the bed. He was sitting up in bed supported by a backrest, -a blinking Buddha in white, blue-trimmed pajamas -and covered with a thin, fine blanket. As I started to introduce -myself, he waved his hand and began to talk.</p> - -<p class='c014'>So far as I knew, I had never before met a psychoanalyst, -and I had the feeling that my every word and move -would be subject to his scrutiny and probably found -wanting. As I answered his questions carefully, politely, -haltingly, I became increasingly jumpy and nervous. My -words wouldn’t come together as they usually did. I -found myself making the most ridiculous errors, catching -myself up only to discover that I was blushing. I was in -the wrong place and I wanted to go home.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>Somehow he was able eventually to put me at ease and -I merely sat and listened. Even when he voiced opinions -on Shakespeare which I felt certain were dead wrong, I -said nothing. What was important was the stream of his -language which was rapid, endless, scintillating, inexhaustibly -alive. His charm and wit, his knowledge of literature, -and his Voltairian cynicism thrilled me, while his -pin-point knowledge of Hebrew and Yiddish left me helpless.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Finally I was dismissed. He thanked me again for having -gone out of my way to deliver the books and told me -to “special order” the particular volume he needed (a -technical work of which I had never heard). He had decided -to wait for it.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The following morning, I opened an account for Dr. -Blitzsten, and I called Ira to thank him for this introduction -to his remarkable uncle. I felt that something rather -peculiar was happening, but I had no idea that it was to -open up an entirely new phase in my business and in my -personal experience.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The departure which was to make the difference between -my financial success or failure in the book business -was inaugurated upon my third visit to Dr. Blitzsten’s -residence. This time I was received in the downstairs -study, where the Doctor sat behind a tremendous, brilliantly -polished desk. He offered me a drink, which I -declined, for I was still very shy in his presence. Then he -launched quickly into the plan he had formulated.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I understand,” he said, “that you have recently married. -I understand that you have a struggling business. I -<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>should like to offer a suggestion. Psychoanalysts have to -get most of their books directly from the publishers or from -dealers in England. Why don’t you put in a good stock of -such books? There will be immediate demand when I -tell my colleagues of it. And I will do one more thing, also. -I’ll help you buy the right titles.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Take these five books and compile the bibliographies -from them. Then come and see me Sunday afternoon and -I’ll help you make your selection.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I accepted a drink now, amazed by this sudden, generous -offer and the possibilities it opened to me. All I -could do was to sit and look, with a heart too flooded with -emotion for speech. I found words, finally, which must -have been the proper words, for he smiled gently as he -saw me to the door.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Sunday afternoon, then. Goodnight,” he called.</p> - -<p class='c014'>On Sunday morning the phone rang. It was Dr. Blitzsten -telling me that I should bring Jennie too. On arrival, -we were escorted into the living room. Again I felt in the -presence of a world of unbelievable grace and charm. -The long, elegantly proportioned room had a vaulted -ceiling and walls covered with early Chinese paintings. -At the far corner stood two ebony Steinways, back to -back. Dr. Blitzsten was seated near one of the pianos, sipping -a glass of wine. Ira was also there, along with Dr. -Harvey Lewis, who soon would become a Seven Stairs -“regular.” After the introductions, Dr. Blitzsten asked -Jennie to play for us.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I felt terribly responsible. She had scarcely touched a -piano for months and I knew her extreme sensitivity as a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>performing artist. But she went to the piano without a -word of apology and began playing Scarlatti, then an impassioned -Shostakovich prelude, and finally “The Girl -with the Flaxen Hair.” There was no doubt that she was -accepted, and I along with her.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I went home with my book lists and the following morning -was busy writing letters, opening accounts, and beginning -the formation of one of the finest libraries of psychiatric -books ever gathered in a single bookstore.</p> - -<p class='c014'>With Lionel Blitzsten’s help, I prepared the first psychiatric -book catalogue to come out of Chicago and -mailed it to every psychiatrist in the United States, to -every university library and institute for psychoanalysis, -and to selected prospects in Canada, Brazil, Germany, -even Africa. Because of Dr. Blitzsten’s extraordinary editing, -the catalogue featured books not readily obtained in -America. I became an active importer of English titles, -especially from the Hogarth Press, which had an outstanding -listing of psychoanalytic books.</p> - -<p class='c014'>A few months later, I added a supplement to the -original catalogue, including books on psychology, philosophy, -anthropology, art and literature. I had quickly -discovered that psychoanalysts were deeply interested in -the impact of all areas of thought upon man’s inner experience -and his spiritual life. Soon ninety percent of my -business was coming from my new specialty, which continued -to thrive in spite of growing competition from New -York involving price-cutting which the publishers appeared -powerless to prevent. The local psychoanalysts -were my best accounts, and many of them, including Bob -<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>Kohrman, Harvey Lewis, Fred Robbins, Richard Renneker, -Aaron Hilkevitch, Jack Sparer, Joel Handler, Stan -Gamm, Ernest Rappaport and Robert Gronner, along with -Katie Dobson, the obstetrician, and Harold Laufman, the -surgeon, became torch bearers for the Seven Stairs and -lasting friends.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Even less expected than this boom in my business was -the social consequence of my deepening relationship with -Lionel Blitzsten. The last thing I would ever have conceived, -the last for which I would have hoped, as a consequence -of my career as a personal bookseller, was an induction -into the Proustian world of the coterie.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The machinery of a coterie is simple; the reasons behind -its operation and its subtle influence on the lives of those -drawn into its orbit are complex almost beyond endurance. -Essentially, the coterie consists of a number of people -who hold <a id='corr65.19'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='similiar'>similar</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_65.19'>similar</a></span> views on unimportant things. Everyone -admitted must observe a cardinal prohibition: to say -nothing fundamental about anything. All must follow -the leader, employ a common stock of expressions, adopt -the same mannerisms, profess the same prejudices, affect -the same bearing, and recognize a common bond of impenetrable -superficiality.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was all to be seen from the first, although I would -not permit my heart to acknowledge it. We were there -for the entertainment of a sick, lonely, gifted man. Sitting -up in his huge bed, Lionel held forth on every subject -imaginable that related to human creativity. He talked -brilliantly, fluidly, endlessly, while his auditors listened, -sipped tea or coffee or a liqueur, bit into a cracker or sandwich, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>laughed or smiled when signaled to do so, or scowled -when necessary.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The strange thing was that so many were envious and -wanted desperately to belong. But the number had to be -limited. Lionel did the choosing and he did the eliminating -(eventually, in fact, he discarded all but one!) He -used people as a machine uses oil. When a person ceased -to give what he needed or showed signs of drying up, the -search began for his replacement. For Lionel required -constant stimulation to avoid falling into melancholy. The -dinner parties and soirees to which he was addicted were -at once indispensable and boring to him, tonic and yet -destructive. The web of his character and his professional -and social commitments was so complex that it became -virtually impossible for him to find a situation of free and -natural rapport or one with which he could deal in any -way except capriciously. Hence his total need for the -“faithful.” Hence, too, if one of the “faithful” <a id='corr66.19'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='become'>became</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_66.19'>became</a></span> valueless, -out he went. Then began the cries and recriminations -and the storm of hysteria reigned supreme in the tea -cup.</p> - -<p class='c014'>One could not remain a passive spectator in this little -world. If you can imagine a great hall with many rooms -occupied by solitary persons somehow bound to one another -by invisible, inextricable longings, with myself dashing, -hopping, skipping, running from one room to another, -you may have a sense of the nightmare my life was -becoming—a fantasy in which some incomprehensible -crisis was always arising or in which my business or personal -life might be interrupted at any hour of the day or -<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>night by a call from Lionel and the despotism of his utter -and absolute need.</p> - -<p class='c014'>In my heart, I knew that my dream of being the Shelley -of the book business was rapidly disappearing. The act -of dressing for an evening of looking at the same well-cared-for, -well-groomed, vacuous people, eating the same -tired hors d’oeuvres, hearing the same gossip, filled me -with almost uncontrollable rage. Yet I was still caught up -in the excitement of being part of this new-found pretentious -world of middle-class wealth.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The first time I was really shaken was at the Christmas -party. Along with others, I had helped trim the gigantic -tree while Lionel sat and amused us with tales and gossip. -The decorating job was truly a work of art and we -were all quite pleased with ourselves when we left, the -members of the inner circle lingering for a few minutes -after the others were gone before offering their thanks and -goodnights. We were saying our goodbyes, when Lionel -turned suddenly and looked at the pillows on his huge -couch.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“They haven’t been fluffed up!” he said, in a voice of -command.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Immediately several young analysts left their wives in -the hall, dropped their coats, and rushed back to “fluff.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>The whole action was so unexpected and infantile that -the blood rushed to my head and for a moment I was dizzy -and unable to focus. And I had let myself in for this sort -of thing! Jennie and I left without saying goodnight.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“There is a time when one goes toward Lionel and another -time when one goes away from him,” an analyst who -<span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>had once been part of the inner circle remarked. This -indeed seemed to be the case, but my inner <a id='corr68.2'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='conflct'>conflict</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_68.2'>conflict</a></span> remained -unresolved. I was ashamed of living in a midnight -of fear. At the same time I felt privileged to know this -gifted and, so often, generous man, who understood the -human soul as few others have. I respected and loved -him and wanted to befriend him in every way that was -not a violation of my own being.</p> - -<p class='c014'>As a group, I found analysts the most sensitive and intelligent -to be found in the professions. But there were -those I could not tolerate, no matter how much they spent -at the shop; the shock artists who fed off the agony and -terror of the bewildered, and the culturally illiterate who -viewed anything dealing with the creative as their province. -The atmosphere would begin to sizzle at the Seven -Stairs the moment any of the latter started analyzing -Mann, Gide, Dostoevsky, Ibsen, Kafka, Homer, anybody -and everybody. I had read Freud’s essay on Leonardo -Da Vinci and Ernest Jones’ on Hamlet with great -interest and decided that the whole approach was one -of intellectual gibberish, regardless of the serious intent -of these great men. But the young and unread analysts -were not even serious. When you cross-examined them, -you found they had never read the plays or books in question: -they were merely quoting an authority and taking -his word for it. Of course, it is a nasty thing to expose -anyone and it is sacrilegious to do it to an analyst. The -change in my relations with some of the psychoanalysts -became increasingly less subtle.</p> - -<p class='c014'>To offset some of the business losses attendant on this -<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>turn of affairs, I hit on the idea of giving a series of lectures -in the store after closing hours. I offered a course -of five lectures on great men of literature at a subscription -price of ten dollars and was surprised to find I was talking -to standing room only. After a month’s respite, I tried -it again with similar success. Emmet Dedmon, then literary -editor of the <i>Chicago Sun-Times</i> heard one of the sessions -and was responsible for recommending me as a replacement -for the eminent Rabbi Solomon Goldman, -when he was taken sick before a lecture engagement. The -success of that one lecture was such that I was booked for -thirteen more. It seemed as though all was not lost.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“It’s a big world,” I assured myself, sitting alone in the -shop before the fire. “The sun does not rise and set with -a handful of analysts.” It was a cool October night. Business -that day had been particularly good. My debts were -not pressing. I took heart.</p> - -<p class='c014'>In apparent response to this cheerful frame of mind, -a smartly dressed customer entered the shop, a man of -medium build with blond hair parted in the middle and -a pair of the bluest eyes I had ever seen.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I am looking for an out-of-print recording, the Variations -on a Nursery Theme by Dohnanyi,” he said. “Perhaps -you may have it?” The accent was unmistakably -British.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was obviously my day—I did have it! “I have something -else, also out-of-print, that might interest you,” I -said. “It’s the Dohnanyi Trio, played by Heifetz, Primrose, -and Feurmann.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Oh, that,” he said. “I know that one. I played it.”</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>I hesitated, sensing some kind of ambiguity.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I’m Primrose,” he said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>We chatted while I wrapped the records. He was -charmed by the shop—it had a really English flavor, he -said. Before I knew it, I was telling him the whole story -of the Seven Stairs.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Until what time do you stay open?” he asked. “It’s -quite late.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I’m closing right now,” I said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“If you have time, let’s have a drink,” he suggested. “I -should like to hear more.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>On a sudden inspiration, I asked first to make a phone -call. While my customer browsed among the books, I -spoke with Lionel and asked if he would like me to bring -William Primrose over. He was ecstatic. At first note, his -voice had sounded forlorn, so empty of life that I guessed -him to be terribly sick. But mention of Primrose acted like -a shot in the arm.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Hurry!” he cried.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I told Mr. Primrose that my friend had a wonderful -bar and a devotion to great music. But he had already -heard of Dr. Blitzsten. “Isn’t that the analyst?” he said. -“My friends in the Budapest Quartet often used his home -for rehearsal.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>So off we went. Lionel was at his best—charming, informative, -genuinely interested in the small talk carried -on by Mr. Primrose. I was delighted really to have pleased -him. When I left Primrose at his hotel that night, the -world seemed good again.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Yet on the way home, I began to have hot and cold -<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>flashes. Why had I called Lionel and offered to bring -Primrose? Why?</p> - -<p class='c015'>A pleasant period followed, warmed by ripening friendships. -Jennie and I attended the Primrose concert and -dined with the great violist afterward. In years to come, -I was to see him frequently and even present him in a -memorable concert in my own shop.</p> - -<p class='c014'>While at Orchestra Hall to hear Primrose, we had also -encountered Dr. Harold Laufman and his wife, Marilyn, -and through some instant rapport agreed to see each other -very soon. The result was an enduring friendship, as well -as one of the most pleasant parties ever held at the Seven -Stairs, a showing of Hal’s pictures which he had painted -in North Africa during the war. They were brilliant, -highly individualistic works.... “My impressions of disease,” -he said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The party was a delight, particularly because there -was no question of selling anything—the artist could -not possibly have been persuaded to part with any of his -pictures. There was nothing to do but pass out the drinks -and enjoy the company, which included a lovely woman -with reddish gold hair out of a Titian portrait who wanted -every book and record in the shop—and who was later -to deliver our first son. She was Dr. Catherine Dobson, an -obstetrician, an analysand of Dr. Blitzsten, and a great -and good friend.</p> - -<p class='c015'>The day after our son was born, I received a call from -Lionel. “What are you going to name the baby?” he asked.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>“We’ve decided on David,” I said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“David?” he said. “That’s too plain. Why not call him -Travis? I just love the name Travis.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I admitted that Travis was fine, but perhaps a bit fancy. -“After all,” I said, “Jennie wants to call the boy David. -What’s the difference?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“A great deal of difference ... for the boy’s future,” -he said. “I love Travis. Suggest it to Jennie.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I had to admit to Jennie that I was afraid to take a -stand. But was it too much ... to give just a little and -to keep things working for us?</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Why are you letting this man ruin our lives?” she -asked.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When I couldn’t answer she relented. David was -named Travis David.</p> - -<p class='c014'>In the days following, I was afflicted with a recurrent -rash and sometimes by mysterious feelings of terror. I -had gone wrong somewhere, and a secret decision had -to be made. I picked up the phone, dialed a number, and -made an appointment.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I started my analysis because I was in trouble. I -needed expert help and I went out and got it. Later it -dawned upon me that this is really the significant thing: -not that there are so many people in today’s world who -need help, but the miraculous urge on the part of the individual -himself to get well. The fact that people on the -whole don’t want to be sick, don’t want to be haunted by -nameless difficulties, convinces me that at the very bottom -of one’s being is the urge to be good, to the good. -This is more important than any description of the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>experience of analysis, which, although it may be invaluable -to the person who suffers through it, is but a process of -living ... nothing more. After all, it was Freud who -said that life is two things: Work and Love.</p> - -<p class='c014'>As I came to tentative grips with my fears of rejection—and -the self-rejections these fears imposed—I began -more and more to act like myself, like the man who started -the Seven Stairs. If Hamlet’s problem lay in his fear of -confusing reality and appearance, so, too, was mine. Only -I was not Hamlet and my task was not the avenging of a -father’s murder. My task was even more basic. I had to -just keep on giving birth to myself.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was a long time before I perceived that Lionel Blitzsten -was less a cause of my problem than a factor in its -treatment. Who was this strange and often solitary genius, -who died leaving such a rich legacy of interpretative -techniques to his profession, who lived like an ancient -potentate, offering to a crowd of sycophants whatever -satisfactions are to be gained from basking in reflected -glory?</p> - -<p class='c014'>My relationship with him revealed things which I was -slow in admitting to my analyst. I shall never forget the -energy I expended telling my analyst how “good” I was. -Fortunately I wasn’t in the hands of a charlatan. He interrupted -me—one of those rare interruptions—and -told me that we both knew how good I was, so quit wasting -time and money on <i>that</i>.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Lionel was like life itself: an amalgam of selfishness, -egoism, cruelty; of goodness, gentleness, compassion. He -offered it all in almost cosmic profusion, and with cosmic -<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>capriciousness. Once he remarked: “The world owes me -nothing. When I die, I will not be sorry. I had joy, still -do; I had love, still have it; I had friends, still have them. -I had all and felt all and saw all and ... believed all. -I had everything and I had nothing. I had what I think -life, in its total meaning, is: I had the dream, the ‘chulum -mensch.’”</p> - -<p class='c014'>This I believe is what he was—a “chulum mensch.” -It contained everything a dream could and should, good -and bad. And much of it was glorious. No one who shared -this part could thank him enough for the privilege of being -admitted.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span> - <h3 class='c005'><span class='xxlarge'>7</span><br>Farewell to the Seven Stairs</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c013'>I had to break it to them gently ... and to myself, as -well. It took a long time to compose the letter to go to all -my clients. “Sometime between June 30th and July 20th,” -the letter said, “the Seven Stairs will end its stand on Rush -Street and move to 670 North Michigan Avenue, where it -will resume life as Stuart Brent: Books and Records.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Everything that the Seven Stairs has come to stand -for will continue. The place will be lovely and cozy and -warm—the conversations easily as crazy and possibly -more inspired. More than that—all of the wonderful -possibilities that we have been developing over the past -five years can now bear fruit.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I reviewed the history of the shop, trying to set down -some of the memorable landmarks in its growth. “... -and so it has gone,” I wrote blithely, “always fresh and -magical, punctuated by famous and admired visitors—Joseph -Szigeti, Katharine Cornell, Elliot Paul, Ernest -Hemingway, Arthur Koestler, Frieda Fromm Reichmann, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>Nelson Algren, Gore Vidal, Carol Brice, many others—wonderful -talk—parties—exhibits. You have been a -part of it with us.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“But physically, the Seven Stairs could never meet our -needs fully. It was too small. Congestion forced us to -give up those author cocktail parties for launching good -new books. It kept us from promoting lectures and exhibits. -It put a definite limit to the size of our stock. And -even if we could have made more space, we couldn’t have -afforded it without an increase in street trade which Rush -Street couldn’t provide.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“However, for all the crowding, the worn appearance, -the careless bookkeeping, the hopeless methods of keeping -our stock of books and records in proper order—the -Seven Stairs set the tone we dreamed of.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“That tone—with all the ease and informality—will -go with it to Michigan Avenue. Probably nothing like it -has ever happened to the Avenue. It’s about time it did.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>My message to the faithful was heartfelt, but more than -a little disingenuous. It mentioned the economics of bookselling -only in passing. And these economic factors had -at last caught up with me. I might ignore my accountant, -but when Jennie and I were invited among the well-fed -and well-cared-for, we were distinctly surrounded by the -aura of the “poor relation.” I might congratulate myself -upon having accomplished, against absurd odds, so much -of what I had initially dreamed about, but I was no longer -responsible only to this dream: I had a growing family—and -I wasn’t unhappy about this, either. It seemed to -me, in spite of all the evidence the modern world has to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>present to the contrary, that the fullness of life (in which -the feeding, clothing, and housing of a family traditionally -figure) ought not, as a matter of principle, stand irrevocably -opposed to personal fulfillment or spiritual realization.</p> - -<p class='c014'>There wasn’t room in the Seven Stairs, it is true—for -books and records, for parties, for anything else. But -room is not the great necessity—it can always be made, -if the spirit is willing. The plain fact of the matter was -that my situation was economically self-limiting in its -scope and its momentum. Only a certain number of people -could be drawn into its sphere, and time and the accidents -of time would take their toll. Some of the parties -did not draw. Some of the clientele who dropped out or -who were alienated through the vagaries of my personal -relations were not replaced. I was either going to have to -regress toward my beginnings or advance toward something -which would suggest, at least, the possibility of -greater scope.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Did this possibility exist along a well-traveled market -place (the Chicago version of Fifth Avenue, although -pictorially more impressive than its Manhattan counterpart), -which lay only a block away from the questionable -Rush Street area?</p> - -<p class='c014'>The opportunity to confront this question came about, -again, through one of the apparent accidents of life, which -I identify under the rather occult heading of “attractiveness.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Without Jack Pritzker there could have been no move -to Michigan Avenue. Jack and his wife, Rhoda, came into -our lives at a cocktail party and became close friends. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>Rhoda is English by birth and wears her charm and dignity -like a delicate mystery. She has a gift for seeing and -has written wonderful articles as a correspondent for British -newspapers. Jack, also, has the effortless manner that -stems from a quality of mind. He is as unlike me as any -man can be: impassive, almost secretive, yet I have never -known a more comfortable man to be with. He is a lawyer -with large interests in real estate and a quiet passion for -being a mover behind the success of others. He will not -forsake you when the going is rough, but in his relations -he holds to a fine line between friendship and duty—and -holds you to this line also. I had already experienced the -danger of the kind of benefactor who tends to take over -your life for you but with Jack Pritzker there is never this -danger. He prefers to see you make it on your own. If -you are beset by circumstances which you cannot control, -he is there; but if you are merely waiting for something -to happen, you can expect nothing but the criticism you -deserve.</p> - -<p class='c014'>This gentle, quiet man, tough yet sentimental, absorbed -in his business, yet somehow viewing it as an experiment -with life rather than a livelihood, devoted to -concrete matters and the hard world of finance and power, -yet in conversation concerned only with the breadth of -life and the humanness of experience, provided a scarcely -felt polarity that gave direction to my often chaotic forces.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When I heard that Jack had a financial interest in a -medical office building under construction on Michigan -Avenue, I asked to rent one of the street level stores. It -was not a matter of seeking financial assistance—it was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>entirely enough to be accepted as the kind of “prestige -tenant” normally sought for such a location. But when -Hy Abrams, my lawyer, went to see about the lease, he -reported that Jack remarked, “If you think I’m letting -Stuart in this store to see him fail, you are mistaken. I -have no intention of standing by and watching him and -his family tenting out in Grant Park.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>But even though someone might be keeping a weather -eye on my survival, I had to face up to my own money -problems. It is madness to go into business without a -bankroll under the mattress. I thought I could see my way -to making it on the Avenue, but where was the cash outlay -coming from for fixtures, additional stock, everything? -Not even my reformed accountant could prepare a financial -statement that would qualify me for additional bank -loans.</p> - -<p class='c014'>There was a way, however, and it was opened to me by -a client who, as a vice president of the First National Bank -of Chicago, was about the last person I thought of approaching -with my difficulties. I knew about banks by -now, although I had somewhat revised my opinions about -the personal limitations of all bankers. In fact, it was always -a source of genuine pleasure to me when this particular -banker, a tall, handsome man with greying hair -and a fine pair of grey eyes to match, came into the shop.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When I told him of my projected move, it was natural -for him to ask how I was financing it. I told him I didn’t -know, but I was certainly going to have to find a way.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“May I offer a suggestion?” he said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>We sat down by the fire, and he told me first what I -<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>already knew: that normally when a business man needs -extra money, especially for a cyclical business dependent -on certain seasons, he will go to the bank for a short-term -loan, say for ninety days. But in New York, he told me, -there is a large department store that finances its own -improvement and expansion programs. Instead of going -to the bank, the store goes to its customers. My friend -suggested that I do the same.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Here’s how it works,” he said. “Write a letter to your -hundred best accounts explaining what you hope to do. -Ask them to help by sending you one hundred dollars in -advance payment against future purchases. In return, -you will offer them a twenty percent discount on all merchandise -purchased under this plan. And of course they -may take as long a time as they wish in using up the -amount they have advanced.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Even as he spoke, he pulled out his pen and began -composing the letter. We worked on it for an hour, and -the next day we met at lunch to draft the final copy. I -sent the approved message to one hundred and twenty-five -people, and I received one hundred and twenty-five -replies—each with a hundred dollar check!</p> - -<p class='c014'>There remained little else to do in the way of arrangements -except to break my present lease. It was not easy, -but it was a pleasure. Now that I planned to move, my -landlord’s attitude was something to behold. He danced -the length of the shop on his tiny feet, his cane twirling -madly, alternating between cries of “Excellent! Your future -is assured!” and “But of course you’ll pay the rent -here, too!” He did not know, he said, what “the corporation” -<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>would think of any proposal for subletting the premises. -Finally he doffed his black hat, waved goodbye, -and skipped out of the store.</p> - -<p class='c014'>A week later I heard from him. The answer on subleasing -was a qualified yes. If I could get a tenant as responsible -and dignified as myself and with equally brilliant -prospects for success, they would consider it.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I advertised for weeks and no such madman responded. -Then one day the answer walked in the door, a huge man -with the general physique of the late Sidney Greenstreet, -hooded eyes, and a great beard. He looked around, -blinked like an owl, and said he’d take it. It was as simple -as that. I realized, with a slight sinking feeling, that I -was now perfectly free to move to the Avenue.</p> - -<p class='c014'>My formidable successor to the home of the Seven Stairs -turned out to indeed be a man of brilliant prospects. He -opened a Thought Factory, evidenced by a sign to this -effect and bulletin boards covered with slips of paper bearing -thoughts. Needless to say, he was in the public relations -and advertising business. I have always felt grateful -to him, but I never got up courage to cross that once -adored threshold and see Mr. Sperry making thoughts.</p> - -<p class='c015'>When the Columbia Record people approached me -concerning the possibility of a party in connection with -the release of a record by the jazz pianist, Max Miller, it -struck me this might be just the thing as a rousing, and -possibly rowdy, farewell to the Seven Stairs.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Somehow, when I phoned our original fellows in literature, -the gaiety of my announcement did not come off. I -<span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>called Bob Parrish, who had once turned an autographing -party into a magic show, and was greeted by an awesome -silence, followed by a lame, “We’ll be there.” There was -similar response from others on the list, but they <i>did</i> come, -all of them ... even Samuel Putnam, who journeyed -all the way from Connecticut.</p> - -<p class='c014'>We had rented a piano and managed to get it in -through the back of the building by breaking through a -wall. The bricks were terribly loose anyway, and it wasn’t -much work to put them back and replaster when it was -all over. Max Miller had promised to bring along a good -side man, and he did: Louis Armstrong. Armstrong was -immediately comfortable in the shop. “This is a wise man,” -he said. He didn’t know I was giving up the ghost at the -Seven Stairs.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Perhaps the end of the Stairs was a symbol for more -than the demise of a personal book store. During -the period in which I had set up shop, the old <i>Chicago -Sun</i> had launched the first literary Sunday supplement -devoted entirely to books to be published by a newspaper -outside of New York City. At least one issue of this supplement, -called “Book Week,” had carried more book advertising -than either the <i>New York Times</i> “Book Review” -or the <i>Herald Tribune</i> “Magazine of Books.” The <i>Chicago -Tribune</i> had followed suit with a book supplement and, -together with the <i>Sun</i>, offered a platform for people like -Butcher, Babcock, North, Apple, Frederick, Kogan, -Wendt, Spectorsky, and others who were not only distinguished -critics and authors, but who truly loved the -world of books. Their efforts had certainly contributed -to the climate that made the Seven Stairs possible. The -<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>diminution of this influence (today only the <i>Tribune</i> carries -a full-scale book supplement) was in direct relationship -to the decline of my own enterprise.</p> - -<p class='c014'>For the last party, everyone came. There were the remaining -literary editors, Fanny Butcher of the <i>Tribune</i>, -Emmet Dedmon of the <i>Sun-Times</i>, and Van Allen Bradley -of the <i>Daily News</i> (the latter two fated to move along to -editorial positions on their newspapers). There was Otto -Eisenschiml and there was Olive Carrithers, for whom -one of our first literary parties had been given. The psychoanalysts -came: Lionel Blitzsten (who had assured -everyone that I really wouldn’t, couldn’t, make the move), -Roy Grinker, Fred Robbins, Harvey Lewis, and of course -Robert Kohrman, who was still to see me through so much. -There was Sidney Morris, the architect; Henry Dry, the -entrepreneur; Ed Weiss, the advertising executive who -discovered the subliminal world and asked which twin -had the Toni; and Everett Kovler and Oscar Getz of the -liquor industry. Louis played and sang and signed records -and shook hands and sang some more, and Miller -played and autographed while the apparent hilarity grew, -the shouting, laughing, and singing. It was a very little -shop, and had there been rafters you could have said it -was full to them. But Ben Kartman was grim, -Reuel Denny seemed bewildered, and above all, the old -gang: Algren, Conroy, Parrish, Terkel, Motley, Herman -Kogan ... they were being charming and decent -enough, but something was out of kilter. I had never seen -them more affable, but it wasn’t quite right—being affable -wasn’t really their line.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Terkel occasionally emerged from the throng to m.c. the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>performance. Studs Terkel is a Chicago phenomenon, a -talented actor and impresario of the wellsprings of culture, -whether jazz or folksongs. In the early days of commercial -television, when the experimenting was being -done in Chicago, he created a type of entertainment perfectly -adapted to the intimate nature of the medium. -“Studs’ Place” was the hottest show in Chicago, so far as -the response of viewers went, but it soon disappeared. Apparently -what Chicago offered could not be exported. The -strange belief continues to persist that the tastes of -America can properly be tested only on the Broadway -crowd (the knowing) or the Hollywood Boulevard -misfits (the paranoiac). The crowds and misfits elsewhere -do not seem to constitute a suitable national index. -Anyway, so far we have not been able to export Studs.</p> - -<p class='c014'>In the growing crowd and increasing turbulence and -raucousness, I didn’t care any longer what happened. I -just stood in a corner and tried to look friendly. Rhoda -and Jack Pritzker came in with a party of friends. People -were crushing about Studs and Louis, urging Louis to -sing and Max to play. Suddenly I was terribly tired. I -wanted air. I was just getting out when the ceiling came -down.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The toilet was on the second floor (it served the entire -building) and, never very dependable, it had come to the -end of the line. When it broke, the water came flooding -down through the ceiling onto the people in the shop and -taking the plaster with it. Louis was soaked. I shall always -remember Rhoda Pritzker barraged by falling plaster -and Dorothea Parrish losing her poise and letting out -<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>a war whoop. Studs got a piece of ceiling in his eye. Max -Miller was directly beneath the broken pipe and suffered -the consequences. For some moments it seemed as though -the total disintegration of the aged structure was at hand.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I ran up the stairs and began applying my best flood -control technique. Finally, with the aid of a pile of rags, -we managed to staunch the flow. Those engaged were -exhausted, but the party was made; now the laughter -rang with real gaiety and the songs soared with enthusiasm. -It was one hell of a wake.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The last song was “Honeysuckle Rose.” The damp -musicians thanked everyone for listening and said -goodbye. There was a hurry of leavetaking. Soon only -Ira Blitzsten, Bob Kohrman, and Ben Kartman remained.</p> - -<p class='c014'>There was nothing left but to turn off the lights and -close up, yet I couldn’t bring myself to rise from behind -the desk. No more building inspectors, no more landlord -wishing me good luck, no more broken plumbing ... -just the end of the world. All I had to do was get up, look -around for the last time, turn off the lights.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Look around at what? The old bookshelves made out -of third grade lumber? The dark green walls that Tweedy -and Carl Dry had helped paint? The absurd little bench -with its hopeful inscriptions? I didn’t need to worry about -the bench. I could take that with me.</p> - -<p class='c014'>There was the barrel in the corner, half full of apples -... the battered old coffee pot sitting on the hot plate -... and the string dangling from the ceiling from which -a salami once depended. I always bought my sausage -from a little old Hassidic Jew who appeared from time to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>time in his long black coat, black hat, and with a grey -and black beard extending down his chest. We would -haggle over the price and he would shower me with blessings -when he left. All of this was spiced with Rabelaisian -jests. Once I asked him, while studying the sausage situation, -“Tell me, do you think sex is here to stay?” He -thought a moment. “I don’t know vy not,” he said. “It’s -in a vunderful location!”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Somehow, I did not see a salami hanging in my new -Michigan Avenue location.</p> - -<p class='c014'>But onward and upward! Don’t turn back now, or -Lionel’s prediction will come true. All is well. The lease -is signed, the fixtures are paid for, you’ve o.k.’d the color -the walls are to be painted, no one is threatening you, -and you’ve put down a month’s advance on the rent. So -please get up and turn off the lights.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was not I, but a zombie moving mechanically toward -the future, who touched the button, left the room, and -softly shut the door.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span> - <h3 class='c005'><span class='xxlarge'>8</span><br>On the Avenue</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c013'>In all my life, I had never shopped on Michigan Avenue. -I had no idea who was in business there or what they -sold (except for a general feeling that they sold expensive -merchandise and made plenty of money). It was only -after I had opened the doors of Stuart Brent: Books and -Records, that I discovered what a strategic location I had -chosen ... strategically in competition with two of the -best-known book dealers in the city!</p> - -<p class='c014'>Only a block down the street was the Main Street Book -Store, already a fixture on the Avenue for a decade. A few -blocks farther south stood Kroch’s, Chicago’s largest bookseller -and one of the greatest in America, while north of -me the Michigan Avenue branch of Lyon and Healy, the -great music store, still flourished. And I thought what the -Avenue needed was Stuart Brent with his books and records! -Maybe it was, but the outlook did not seem propitious.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Now, ten years later, Main Street and I are still selling -<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>books and not, I think, suffering from each other’s proximity. -Main Street’s orientation has always been toward -art, and they run a distinguished gallery in connection -with their business. Lyon and Healy eventually closed -its branch operation, and Kroch’s left the Avenue when -they merged with Brentano, an equally large organization -with which I have no family connection, on the Italian -side or any other. These consolidations, I am sure, were -simply manifestations of big business. If I were to fret -about the competition, it would be that of the dime store -next door, which sells books and records, too.</p> - -<p class='c014'>In addition to the street-level floor, my new shop had -a fine basement room which I fitted out hopefully as a -meeting place. I immediately began staging lectures and -parties and put in a grand piano so we could have concerts, -too. Anything to bring in people. Business grew, -but as I soon found I would have to sell things besides -books in order to meet the overhead, I compromised on -long-standing principles and brought in greeting cards. -Within six months, I was also selling “how to do it books”—how -to eat, how to sleep, how to love, how to fix the -leaky pipe in your basement, how to pet your cat, how to -care for your dog, how to see the stars....</p> - -<p class='c014'>By the time I had been on the Avenue a year, it was -hard for me to see how my shop differed from any other -where you might find some good books and records if you -looked under the pop numbers and <a id='corr88.29'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='best-sellers'>bestsellers</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_88.29'>bestsellers</a></span>. Apparently -some people still found a difference, however. In -his book <i>The Literary Situation</i>, <a id='corr88.31'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='Malcom'>Malcolm</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_88.31'>Malcolm</a></span> Cowley, the distinguished -critic, wrote:</p> -<p class='c022'><span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>On Michigan Avenue, I passed another shop and recognized -the name on the window. Although the salesroom wasn’t large, -it was filled with new books lining the walls or piled on tables. -There were also two big racks of long-playing records, and a -hidden phonograph was playing Mozart as I entered (feeling -again that I was a long way from Clark and Division). The -books on the shelves included almost everything published -during the last two or three years that I had any curiosity about -reading. In two fields the collection was especially good: psychiatry -and books by Chicago authors.</p> - -<p class='c023'>I introduced myself to the proprietor, Stuart Brent, and -found that he was passionately interested in books, in the solution -of other people’s personal problems, and in his native city. -Many of his customers are young people just out of college. -Sometimes they tell him about their problems and he says to -them, “Read this book. You might find the answer there.” He -is mildly famous in the trade for his ability to sell hundreds of -copies of a book that arouses his enthusiasm: for example, he -had probably found more readers for Harry Stack Sullivan’s -<i>An Interpersonal Theory of Psychiatry</i> than any other dealer -in the country, even the largest. Collections of stories are -usually slow-moving items in bookstores, although they have -proved to be more popular as paperbacks. One evening Brent -amazed the publisher of Nelson Algren’s stories, <i>The Neon -Wilderness</i>, by selling a thousand copies of the <a id='corr101.26'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='hard-cover'>hardcover</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_101.26'>hardcover</a></span> book -at an autograph party.</p> - -<p class='c023'>We talked about the days when the Near North Side was -full of young authors—many of whom became famous New -Yorkers—and about the possibility of another Chicago renaissance, -as in the years after 1915. Brent would like to do something -to encourage such a movement. He complained that most -of the other booksellers didn’t regard themselves as integrated -parts of the community and that they didn’t take enough interest -in the personal needs of their customers.... Brent’s complaint -against the booksellers may well have been justified, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>from his point of view, but a visitor wouldn’t expect to find -that any large professional group was marked by his combination -of interest in persons, interest in the cultural welfare of -the community, and abounding energy.</p> - -<p class='c023'>As a group, the booksellers I have met in many parts of the -country are widely read, obliging, likable persons who regard -bookselling as a profession and work hard at it, for lower incomes -than they might receive from other activities. They -would all like to sell more books, in quantities like those of -the paperbacks in drugstores and on the news stands, but they -are dealing in more expensive articles, for which the public -seems to be limited.</p> - -<p class='c013'><i>The Literary Situation</i> was published by Viking Press -in 1954. I had met Mr. Cowley on a January evening the -year before. When he came in, tall and distinguished -looking, I had given him a chance to browse before asking -if I could be of assistance. He smiled when I offered my -help, then asked if I had a copy of <i>Exile’s Return</i>. I did. -He fingered the volume and asked if I made a living selling -books. “Of course,” I said, slightly miffed.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“But who in Chicago buys books like the ones you have -on these shelves?” he asked.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Lots and lots of people,” I assured him. I still didn’t -know he was baiting me. We began to talk about Chicago, -as I now saw it and as it had been. In a moment, he was -off on Bug House Square (Chicago’s miniature Hyde -Park), the lamented Dill Pickle Club, the young Hemingway, -Ben Hecht, Charlie MacArthur, Dreiser, Sherwood -Anderson, Archibald MacLeish, Sinclair Lewis. I had to -ask his name, and when he said, Malcolm Cowley, I took -<i>Exile’s Return</i> away from him and asked him to autograph -<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>it to me. He took the book back and wrote: “To -Stuart Brent—a <i>real</i> bookstore.” I felt better about being -on the Avenue.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The next evening, Mr. and Mrs. Cowley came to one -of our concerts in the downstairs room and heard Badura-Skoda -and Irene Jonas play a duo recital.</p> - -<p class='c014'>America lacks the cafés and coffee houses that serve as -literary meeting places in all European countries. I had -high hopes for our basement room with its piano and hi-fi -set and tables and comfortable chairs as a place for such -interchange. In addition to our concerts, lectures, and -art exhibits, there were Saturday afternoon gatherings of -men and women from a wide range of professions and disciplines -who dropped in to talk and entertain each other. -We served them coffee and strudel.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Possibly the most memorable of our concerts was that -played by William Primrose. He had promised long ago -to do one if I ever had a shop with the facilities for it. We -had them now, and quite suddenly Primrose called to -announce that he would be stopping over in Chicago on -his way to play with the Boston Symphony Orchestra and -would be delighted to present us with a recital.</p> - -<p class='c014'>There were only a few days to prepare for the event. -As soon as the word was out, we were deluged with phone -calls. Our “concert hall” would seat only fifty people, so -I decided to clear the floor on the street level, rent two -hundred chairs for the overflow audience, and pipe the -music up to them from the downstairs room. I hired a -crew of experts to arrange the microphones and set up the -speakers.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>The show did not start with any particular aplomb, -and it got worse, for me at least, as the evening progressed. -Primrose came early to practice. It hadn’t occurred to me -that he needed to. He wanted not only to practice, but -moreover a place in which he could do so undisturbed. -Since the “concert hall” was swarming with electricians, -not to mention the porter setting up chairs while I ran up -and down the stairs alternating between a prima donna -and a major domo, it looked as though another place -would have to be found for Primrose to practice. I therefore -took the great violist into a basement storage room -that served as a catchall shared by my shop and the -drugstore next door. But Primrose settled down happily -in the dirty, poorly lit room amid stacks of old bills, Christmas -decorations, old shelves and fixtures, empty bottles -and cartons of Kleenex and went to work.</p> - -<p class='c014'>In less than ten minutes, a little grey man who filled -prescriptions came bounding down the stairs screaming, -“Where is Brent? Where is Brent?” He caught me in the -hall and continued yelling, “If this infernal racket doesn’t -stop, honest to God, I’ll call the police!” It was no use telling -him the man making the racket was one of the world’s -greatest musicians. He had never heard of Primrose and -couldn’t have cared less. The noise coming up the vents, -he claimed, was not only causing a riot in the drugstore, -but he was so unnerved by the sounds that he had already -ruined two prescriptions. While he was howling about -his losses, I began howling with laughter. But there -seemed nothing to do but get Primrose out of that -room.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>I moved my star into our receiving room, a messy cubbyhole -ten feet wide. He didn’t seem to mind, although now, -since he couldn’t walk up and down, he was confined to -sitting in a chair for his practice.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Meantime, a crowd far beyond our capacity had -swarmed into both levels of the shop. Those who came -early got seats. Others sat on the stairs leading down to -the hall. The rest stood, and some even spilled out the -door onto Michigan Avenue. I couldn’t get from one end -of the place to the other without stepping on people. I -found myself begging someone’s pardon all evening long.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Then the complaints began. Those seated in the hall -were gasping for air. Our cooling system simply wasn’t -up to handling that many people. I rushed to the boiler -room where the gadgets for controlling the air-conditioning -were located and tried to improve the situation. Of -course, I made it worse.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Finally I introduced Primrose to the audience and beat -a hasty retreat. Almost at once an “important” guest -tackled me with his complaints. I beat my way upstairs -(those sitting on the stairs discovered they were not able -to hear a thing) and after tripping over dozens of feet and -crushing against uncounted bodies was confronted by a -thin, long woman wearing a turban hat, who seized me -and, amid this utter confusion, began telling me I was the -most wonderful man alive. Her eyes were burning and -every time she took a breath, she rolled her tongue across -her lips. I was fascinated, but desperate. “What do you -want?” I begged, willing to do virtually anything to extricate -myself. “I want you to be my agent,” she said, pressing -<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>me to the wall. “I’m an author and I’ll have nothing -to do with anyone but you.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I ducked beneath her outstretched arms, trampled some -people, caught my foot in the lead wire to one of the microphones, -and fell heavily into the lap of one of the most -attractive women I have ever seen. She fell off her chair -onto the floor and I rolled on top of her. A folding chair -ahead of me collapsed, and before anything could be -done, a dozen lovers of music and literature lay sprawled -on top of one another, while those not engaged in this -chain reaction pronounced menacing “shooshes.” By the -time I had righted myself, several friends had come up -from the concert hall to complain about the noise upstairs.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Finally the concert ended. I was later told that William -Primrose gave a brilliant performance—something to be -remembered and cherished for a lifetime. I would not -know. All I know is that the “most attractive woman in -the world” in whose lap I landed sent me a bill for eighty -dollars to replace the dress which I apparently had torn -beyond reconstruction. I paid the bill.</p> - -<p class='c015'>There were other fine parties, among them one that -grew out of the arrival of a play called “Mrs. McThing,” a -funny, whimsical, adroit production which could be the -product only of a great goodness of the heart. Helen -Hayes and Jules Munshin were the stars.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I loved every minute of the play, and in addition to being -entranced by Miss Hayes’ remarkable performance, -thought Jules Munshin to be extraordinarily comical in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>his role. One of his telling lines was, “Let’s have a meeting,” -no matter what the situation that provoked it. The -problem might be entirely trivial, but before a decision -could be made, a meeting first took place. As things do -happen, the morning after the play opened in Chicago, -Mr. Munshin walked into the shop along with another -member of the cast. It was impossible to greet him with -any other words, but, “Let’s have a meeting!” We became -friends instantly, and when the play neared the end -of its run, we decided there should be a farewell party for -the cast. Jules asked Miss Hayes if she would come, and -I was properly thrilled when she agreed.</p> - -<p class='c014'>So on closing night they all came to the bookstore, along -with about thirty people Jennie and I had asked to join -us. The program did not have to be planned. There was -singing, reciting, story-telling. Then, quite by surprise, -Miss Hayes’ colorful husband joined us. The fun really -began, not only in heightened conversation, but when -the MacArthurs’ daughter sat at the piano with Chet -Roble and played and sang. Roble is another Chicago -“original”—an artist of the blues and a superb personality -and musician who has been playing over the years -at Chicago hotels and night spots and always attracts a -large and appreciative following. He was part of the cast -of <a id='corr95.26'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='Turkel'>Terkel</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_95.26'>Terkel</a></span>’s famous “Studs’ Place” show. He represents an -almost lost art not only in his old-time jazz musicianship, -but also in terms of cabaret entertainment—the performer -who genuinely loves his work and his audience and -who will remember ten years later the face of someone he -met in a noisy night club crowd.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>It was an all-night party. I talked with Miss Hayes -about Ben Hecht, who had collaborated with Charles -MacArthur on “The Front Page,” which opened quite a -new page for the American theatre. She agreed that -Ben could talk more sense, more dramatically than any -author we knew. I had had an autographing party for -Ben’s book, <i>Child of a Century</i>, an autobiographical study -of his life and development as a writer. We sold almost -800 copies of the book that night. Ben came with his wife -and daughter and sat behind the desk with a cigar in his -mouth, his eyes dreamy, his mind tending toward some -distant land, but he was most affable, while repeating over -and over: “I’ve never done such a thing in my whole life. -And I’ve been writing for forty years!”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Later Hecht had taken me to the old haunts of the Chicago -literary scene. We sat in a tavern he had frequented -while working on the now defunct <i>Chicago Journal</i>. He -showed me where Hemingway took boxing lessons. We -went to the building where Ben had lived on the fourth -floor and Hemingway on the floor beneath. It was a time -not long past, yet far away and long ago.</p> - -<p class='c014'>We viewed the former locale of the Dill Pickle Club, -the famous literary tavern. Ben talked to me with personal -insight about Sherwood Anderson, Theodore Dreiser, -Maxwell Bodenheim, Covici Friede, and others, among -them, some of whose fame lay in tragic ends—death by -drink, suicide, or merciless twists of fate.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Not long ago, I phoned Ben at his home in Nyack, New -York. Red Quinlan, the television executive, had an idea -for a series of literary shows to be called, “You Can’t Go -<span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>Home Again.” He had talked to me about being narrator, -and I in turn had suggested Ben Hecht for the first interview.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Ben,” I said, “this is Stuart Brent. Do you remember -me?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>There was a flat, “Yes,” as though he didn’t, really.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I’m calling to tell you,” I said, “that we have a great -idea for a TV show and I want to interview you for it. It’s -called....”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I don’t want to hear it,” he said. “I don’t want a living -thing to do with TV. Don’t tell me what you have to say. -I don’t want to hear it.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Wait a minute,” I said, “you haven’t given me a -chance.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I don’t want to give you a chance,” he said. “I have no -use for TV or anybody who writes for TV. It’s worse than -snaring little girls away from home.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“You still don’t understand,” I said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Look mister,” he said, “I understand. I just don’t want -to hear your proposition. I want nothing to do with you -or television. Is that clear?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Wait a minute, Ben,” I said, “this is Stuart Brent from -Chicago, don’t you remember?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Oh, Stu. Where are you calling from?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“From Chicago.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Oh my God. Why did you let me run off like that? I -thought you were some two for a nickel joker from a television -agency. I’m sorry. How are you, baby?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Fine,” I said, “but I do want to talk with you about a -TV series that I hope I’m going to do.”</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>“Sorry, baby, the answer is no. Not for any money in -the world.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Well, how are you financially?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Ach, you know. Same damn thing. But I don’t care. -I’m busy, killing myself with writing. I’ve got a hot book -coming out soon. Be sure and get a copy. It’s really hot.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I wish you’d hear what I have to say. It’s really a fine -idea.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Sorry, no. How’s the bookstore?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>So we talked of books and the time I nearly blew a -gasket when Ben autographed his book, <i>Charlie</i>, at another -Chicago store. He had sent me a carbon copy of -his manuscript on that talented and lovable bum, Charles -MacArthur, and I had told him I hoped we could raise -a stir with a real party when the book came out. He -agreed, having been considerably impressed with the first -party we held for him. Ben was in Italy writing a movie -scenario when the publication date of <i>Charlie</i> was announced. -Upon receiving a cablegram requesting a Chicago -autographing party date, he wired, Yes, thinking it -was to be at my bookstore. It wasn’t ... and for weeks -after the event was held, nobody dared get near me.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I’m still sorry about that mixup,” Ben said. “Well, o.k., -baby, take care of yourself. When you get to New York, -give me a ring and I’ll meet you for a drink at the Algonquin.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I remembered my original purpose and tried again. -“For the last time, you won’t listen to me about this TV -thing?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Absolutely, irrevocably, no. Goodbye, Stu.”</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>I was left pondering about the strange and rather terrifying -creature that is Ben Hecht, a wise, witty man of -the world with the disarming gentleness of a tamed jungle -beast. I thought again of our sentimental revisiting of -Hechtian haunts ... the small tavern across from Bug -House Square where Ben paced off the original setting: -“In this corner was a stage, here were the tables, and there -were the two chairs that belonged to Charlie and me. -Here, in this corner, we wrote <i>The Front Page</i>.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Suddenly he put down his beer and said, “Let’s take a -taxi over to the campus. I want to show you where Carl -Wanderer lived.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>We hadn’t traveled far before Ben changed the course -and directed the cab driver to let us off near the Civic -Opera building. We walked down a few stairs into another -tavern and Ben stood, cigar in mouth, looking. There -were a few men at the bar and the bartender, leaning on -outspread arms and returning Ben’s look inquiringly.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Have you seen John Randolph or Michael Brown or -Rudy York?” Ben said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>No one there had ever heard of them.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Ben muttered under his breath. “I guess they’re all -dead,” he said. “I used to work with them on the <i>Journal -American</i>.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>We sat down and ordered a beer. “I think this must -be the place,” he said, “but I might have it mixed up. We -had good times together. We had a real ball with this -character, Wanderer. Do you know the story?</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Well, Wanderer was an ex-army officer who discovered -that his wife was pregnant. He didn’t want the child -<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>because he feared it would interfere with resuming his -army career. He wanted to re-enlist. So he arranged for a -fake holdup on Ingleside Avenue. That’s where I want -to take you now.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Anyway, he got a bum off Clark Street and gave the -guy a few dollars to make this holdup, assuring him it was -just a trick to be played on his wife for fun. Wanderer -took his wife to the movies that night, to a theatre, if my -memory is correct, called the Midway. And on their way -home, they have to walk almost half a block along the side -of a school yard. The streets are poorly lit, and this bum -sticks a gun to Wanderer and yells, ‘This is a <a id='corr100.13'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='stickup'>stick-up</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_100.13'>stick-up</a></span>!’</p> - -<p class='c014'>“The bum never had a real gun. But Wanderer did. He -pretended to struggle with the guy and then shot him ... -turned the gun on his wife, too, and killed her instantly. -Then he wiped off the gun and shoved it into the bum’s -dead hand. It looked as though the robber had been resisted -and somehow shot in the fight. Wanderer became -a hero overnight, and the newspapers played him up for -all it was worth.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Ben and Carl Sandburg, who was then a reporter on -the <i>Journal</i>, were eventually responsible for breaking -the case. They went to interview the hero and came away -with mutual misgivings which they confided to the police. -It was a triumph worthy of <i>The Front Page</i>, but I think -it was the irony of the world’s readiness for hero worship -that made pricking the Wanderer balloon such a satisfying -episode in the life of Ben Hecht.</p> - -<p class='c015'>In spite of all our efforts, the lectures and concerts in -our downstairs room did not continue to draw indefinitely. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>Sometimes we couldn’t get fifty people to come out of an -evening to hear good music for free (and one of the finest -chamber groups in the city was providing us with a series -just for the chance to play.) Saturday afternoons were -idle—people seemed to have become too busy to spend -time in simple conversation.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Book sales dropped, too. Price cutting hurt the psychiatric -mail order business, although we held out for -several years. Finally we discontinued the catalogue, in -spite of its definitive value as a listing of significant books -in this field.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Again, something new had to be done and done quickly. -I decided to go after business and industrial accounts -and to persuade them to give books instead of whiskey for -Christmas presents. My successes included selling a bank -250 copies of the Columbia Encyclopedia, with the name -of each recipient stamped in gold on the cover. I’m not -sure this did much for the human spirit, but it helped pay -the rent.</p> - -<p class='c014'>One afternoon Ben Kartman came in with a friend who -had some ideas about Brent and television. They arranged -an audition, I was accepted, and for almost a year -I had a fifteen minute afternoon show, sandwiched between -a program on nursing and one on cooking. Financially -it was a disaster. I was paid scale, which at that -time was $120 per week, and after I paid my union dues -and my agent’s fees, most of the cost of the extra help I -had to hire to cover the shop during my absences came -right out of my own pocket. But I did learn this: be very -careful what you sign, re-read the small print, and be sure -to see your lawyer—lessons that would be helpful when -<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>television again beckoned in ways to be fully described -in another chapter.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Every morning as I turned the key in the lock and entered -the shop, my heart sank. Each day brought trouble, -process servers, trips to the lawyer. This was what -came from entering a retail business without a financial -“cushion”—and especially a business that demanded a -large stock: for every book I sold, I had to buy three ... -three books it might take months to sell. Sometimes I -could visualize the credit managers sitting down for a -meeting—their agenda: Let’s Get Brent. There was -nothing to do but fight it out, worry it out, dream it out.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I have said disparaging things about the publishing -industry and shall say more. But it was publishers and -their representatives who, in large measure, saw me -through. There was Robert Fitzhenry from Harper, now -some kind of an executive, then one of the top salesmen in -the business. He reminded one of Hemingway’s description -of Algren: watch out for him or he will kill you with a -punch. At one time you’d have thought from the titles on -the shelves that I was a branch store for Harper. There -was Joe Reiner from Crown Publishers, one of the first to -sell me books out of New York. He too has graduated into -the executive category. He taught me many things about -the book business, and it was he who arranged for me to -buy old book fixtures from the late Dorothy Gottlieb, the -vivid, marvelous proprietress of the Ambassador Bookstore.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Bennett Cerf, master showman of the industry, gave -me a measure of prestige when I needed it by making me -<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>an editor, along with Jessie Stein, of the Psychiatric Division -of Random House. I was able to help their list with -a number of important works by Chicago analysts.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Over the years people like Ken McCormick, Michael -Bessie, Pat Knopf, Jr., Ed Hodge, Richard Grossman, -Gene Healy, Peter Fields, Bob Gurney, Max Meyerson, -Bella Mell, Bill Fallon, and Hardwick Moseley became -more than business acquaintances and left their imprint -on my life as well as upon my adventures in the book -world. But more about that world later.</p> - -<p class='c014'>As business improved and as the light gradually became -visible through the turbid waters in which I seemed immersed, -my energies became increasingly focused upon -the simple matter of keeping going, the business of each -day’s problems, each month’s decisions, each year’s gains. -Work and living have a way of closing in around one’s being -so completely that when fate strikes through this envelopment, -it comes as a stunning surprise. Fate does not -care for what has been the object of one’s personal concern, -and it seldom sends a letter or telegram to announce -its arrival.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It had been just another day. Jennie had complained -of a headache and some difficulty in focusing. In the -afternoon we saw a doctor and in the evening an eye specialist. -Evidently it was not glaucoma. Nonetheless we -administered some eye drops and some pills. I fell asleep -in the living room in my chair that night and was awakened -early in the morning by three small children, vaguely -perturbed, dragging their blankets behind them. Jennie -was dead.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>Death is not saying goodbye. One can no more say -goodbye to death than to a statue or a wall. There is -nothing to say goodbye to. It is too natural and final to be -dealt with in any of the artificial, temporizing ways with -which we pretend to conduct relations with reality.</p> - -<p class='c014'>My first impulse was to run—sell the store for whatever -I could get, pack up my things, and leave. Take off perhaps -for the little fishing village of Bark Point on the -Northern tip of Wisconsin where we had a summer place -and there retire in solitude and raise the children as best -I could.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was Bob Kohrman who got me to quit trying to react -to death and to just go ahead and mourn. Death has -no face, is no audience, has nothing to do with reaction. -It is the life of the individual that demands everything, -cries out to be lived, and if mourning is a part of this, go -ahead. So I stayed where I was and worked and -mourned, until one day the pain of loss stopped altogether.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Michael Seller had come over to the apartment one -night and talked to me. “For one thing,” he begged, -“don’t let irritations and problems pile up. Resolve them -from day to day. And another thing ... no matter what -the cost, come home every night for supper. Never let a -day or night go by without seeing your children and -talking with them.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I followed Mike’s advice to the letter. Every night I -was home for dinner at six o’clock, even though I might -have to leave later and return to the store. My routine -was established. I ate, slept, and worked, and after store -hours I gave myself to the problems that beset all parents -<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>of small children: changing diapers and being concerned -over unexpected rashes and fevers in the night. I remembered -Tolstoy’s answer to the question: When is a man -free? A man is free when he recognizes his burden, like -the ox that recognizes its yoke.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I learned that I was not alone. It was not only old -friends like Claire Sampson bringing over a turkey for our -dinner, or Lollie Wexler, early one wintry morning unbuttoning -the hood about her blonde hair and, flushed -with the cold and her own tremendous effort, saying ever -so softly, “Can I help?” It was also people I scarcely knew, -such as the strange man whose name I invariably forgot, -but who dressed so elegantly, a stickpin in his tie, his -moustache beautifully trimmed, a small flower in his lapel, -and who called everybody, “Kid.” He came in now on a -wet November night and bought some detective stories. -To my astonishment, when I handed him the books, he -began to weep. The tears were irresistible, so I looked at -him and wept also. “You’re a sweet kid,” he said, strangling, -and turned and left the shop.</p> - -<p class='c014'>There was Marvin Glass, a genius at toy design, devoted -like Mann’s Herr Settembrini to the total encompassment -of human knowledge. I almost had to hire a girl -to take care of his special orders alone, dispatching telegrams, -night letters, even cablegrams for books he wanted -yesterday. He spoke in confidential whispers, but his expression -was always so precise that you invariably found -yourself watching carefully over every word you uttered -in response.</p> - -<p class='c014'>There was Bert Liss, who wore the most beautiful coats -<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>I had ever seen and a fantastic series of elegant hats: a -Tyrolean hat, a checkered cap, a Cossack fur hat, a dashing -black homburg. Whenever he went crazy over a book, -at least twenty of his friends would order a copy. But -more than that, he was a gentleman, firm in his belief in -the goodness of man.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Sidney Morris, the architect who helped design the -interior of the shop (and never sent a bill) was there, not -only to buy, but more important, whenever I needed -someone to confide in. There was Oscar Getz—Oscar, -in vaguely Prince Albert dress, forgetting a life of business -<a id='corr106.13'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='ad'>and</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_106.13'>and</a></span> civic responsibility the moment he entered the world -of letters. Upon encounter with ideas, his eyes lit up and -his body began to quiver. There was no doubt about his -ability to entrance his listeners. Once, while driving him -home after an evening spent at a small <a id='corr106.17'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='cafe'>café</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_106.17'>café</a></span> listening to -gypsy music, I became so absorbed in what he was saying -that I was presented with tickets for two traffic violations, -one for failing to stop at a red light and another -for going in the wrong direction down a one-way street.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Another scholarly business man, Philip Pinsof, came -in with his brothers, Oscar and Eddie, and together they -made it clear that I was being cared for. In later years I -was to enjoy Sabbath dinners at the Pinsofs’—where -Phil’s wife was a most gracious hostess who would seat -her husband on a red pillow, as if to say, “For five days -you have received the slings and arrows of the marketplace, -but on Friday night you are as a king in your own -home.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>George Lurie came not only to buy books but to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>regale me with stories, such as the episode in which he attended -the board of governors meeting of a major university -and was invited to sign a book in which each guest -had inscribed not only his name but his alma mater. -George wrote his name in the book and cryptically added -H & M. The gentleman sitting next to him asked, “Harvard -and what? Massachusetts Institute of Technology?” -“No,” said George, “Halsted and Maxwell”—the address -of Chicago’s famous and still extant open air market.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Everett Kovler, president of the Jim Beam whiskey -company, made it clear to me that I could call him and -say, “Everett, I need a sale.” There were times when I -did, and he always replied, “Fine, send it.” Another official -of the same firm, George Gabor, was also my benefactor. -Through a strange twist of fate, he was able to -cancel a debt that plagued me, muttering under his -breath as he bought a book, “About that ... it’s all been -washed out.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>While the kindness of my customers served to cheer -my heart no little, my peace of mind was greatly augmented -by the personal friendship and professional concern -of Dr. Arthur Shafton, the kind of pediatrician -who would come to the house at a moment’s notice to treat -bleeding or feverish children and soothe their hysterical -father, the kind of physician who views medicine as an -art. Sometimes when he dropped into the shop, he would -take me in hand too, suggesting, “Perhaps you ought to -go home now, you look tired.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>For a brief time, I also thought I had found a gem of an -<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>office girl. She was certainly unique and physically striking: -a high breasted young creature at least six feet tall -who responded to instructions by taking a deep breath, -blinking her grey-blue eyes, and intoning, “Will do!” -Then she would wheel on her spike heels, pick up her -knees with an elevation that threatened to strike her chin, -and walk away, a marvel of strange symmetry. She was -the most obedient employee I ever had and the tidiest. -My desk was always clean as a whistle. But when the -time came for the month’s billings, I could find no accounts. -I rushed to Miss “Will do” in consternation. She -fluttered her lashes and said, “I threw them away.” That -was how she kept my desk so clean!</p> - -<p class='c014'>As Christmas approached, the consideration and generosity -of my friends and customers became positively orgiastic. -Ruth Weiss called and said, “I’m telling everyone -I know to send books and records for Christmas,” and apparently -they did so. I have never seen so many art books -sold at one time as on the day Dr. Freund and his wife, -Geraldine, came in. Dr. Freund kept saying, “Lovely, I -must have it,” to everything I showed him, until I became -thoroughly embarrassed, and still he persisted in buying -more. Sidney Morris sent books to all his architect friends, -and the purchases of Morry Rosenfeld were so prodigious -that May Goodman, my floor manager, was left speechless. -The gentle Ira Rubel spent hours making copious selections, -saying quizzically of each purchase, “Do you -really think this is the most suitable?” A. N. Pritzker, -Jack’s brother, made one of his rare appearances, and -bought records—a little classical, a little operatic, a little -<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>ballet, a little jazz, a little popular, until he had a stack -three feet high which he insisted upon paying for on the -spot, although we were really too busy to figure up the -amount.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It went like this day after day, until my embarrassment -at so much kindness, and my inability to know what to -say or do about it, became almost too much. Late at night, -I would lie awake thinking about all these people rallying -about me. And then my embarrassment turned to humble -acceptance of so much caring, so much human warmth.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span> - <h3 class='c005'><span class='xxlarge'>9</span><br>Bark Point</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c013'>Whenever I travel, one thing is certain: that I will get -lost. Perhaps if I could remember which is my right hand -and which is my left, or tell north from south, I should be -able to follow directions more successfully. But it probably -wouldn’t help. I have an unfailing knack for choosing -the wrong turn and a constitutional incapacity for -noticing important signs.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was therefore not surprising that, on a summer twelve -years ago, while making my way toward Canada, I turned -up Bark Bay Road thinking I had found a short-cut and -very nearly drove off a cliff overhanging Lake Superior. -Berating myself as usual, I looked around and observed a -man working in a field not far from the road. He wore a -battered felt hat, a shirt open at the neck, heavy black -trousers supported by suspenders, and strong boots. His -eyes were sky blue and his weathered skin, brown as a -nut, was creased in a myriad wrinkles on the neck and -about the eyes. When I approached and asked him how -<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>to get to Canada, he replied in an accent that I could not -place. His speech was rapid and somewhat harsh in -tonality, but his manner was cheerful and friendly, so I -paused to chat with him. He said he was preparing his -strawberry field for next year.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“This is beautiful country,” I said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Ya, it is that,” he said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I wish I owned some of it,” I said. “I think I could live -here for the rest of my life.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Well, this land belongs to me. I might sell you an acre, -if you like.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>As we walked across the field toward the bay, he said, -“Are you a son of Abraham?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I had never been called anything that sounded quite -so beautiful. “Yes, I am a son of Abraham,” I said proudly.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“My name is Waino,” he said. “I am a fisherman. But -I own this land.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Trees, grass, and water ... there was nothing else -to be seen, except a small house covered with flowers -and vines a quarter mile across a clover field. “Who lives -there?” I said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“My brother-in-law, Mike Mattson. He might sell you -his house,” Waino said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I met the Mattsons. Mike looked kindly. His eyes were -grey rather than blue, but his skin was as deeply brown as -Waino’s, with as many crinkles about the eyes. Waino’s -sister, Fanny, wore a kerchief about her head, tied with a -small knot beneath her chin. She spoke little English and -our business transaction was often <a id='corr111.39'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='interupted'>interrupted</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_111.39'>interrupted</a></span> while Mike -translated for her in Finnish.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>I bought the house and an acre of ground. The house -had only two small rooms, no running water, no toilet. -This didn’t matter. Like the room that originally housed -the Seven Stairs, <i>I wanted it</i>. I had the identical feeling: -no matter what the cost, or how great the effort and sacrifice -that might be entailed, this place must be mine. My -soul stirred with nameless wonder. I felt lifted into the -air, my life charged with new purpose and meaning. I -put down one hundred dollars as earnest money, arranged -a contract for monthly payments, and became a part of -Bark Point.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Bark Point is located at the northernmost corner of -Wisconsin. At this writing, exactly five people live there -the year around. In summer, the Brents arrive, and our -neighbors, Clay Dana, Victor Markkulla, Robert McElroy, -Waino Wilson and the Mike Mattsons, swelling the total -population to as many as fifteen adults and children. The -nearest town, Herbster, is six miles away. Farther south -is the town of Cornucopia, and to the north, Port Wing. -Thirty-five miles off the coast of Lake Superior stand the -Apostle Islands, and beyond, Canada. It is about as far -from Michigan Avenue as you can get.</p> - -<p class='c014'>This new habitat which I grasped so impulsively provided -a kind of spiritual nourishment which the city did -not offer. And later when I married Hope, she responded -as eagerly as I had to the benign sustenance of this isolated -sanctuary.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It is not only the natural beauty and quiet remoteness -of the locale, but also the strength that we find in association -with our neighbors, whose simplicity stems not from -<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>lack of sophistication, but from the directness of their relations -with the forces of life and nature.</p> - -<p class='c014'>There is John Roman, who lives in Cornucopia, the tall, -thin, master fisherman of the Northern world. He is gentle, -shy, and rather sensitive, with the courage of one who -has been in constant battle against nature, and the wisdom -given only to those who have endured the privations -and troubles and disappointments of life completely on -their own. Now well into his seventies, he fishes a little -for pleasure, cuts pulp to make a few dollars, and spends -much of his time listening to foreign news reports on his -short wave radio.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When he stops by for his glass of tea, he never comes -empty handed. There is always something wrapped in a -newspaper to be presented to you in an off-hand manner, -as though to say, Please don’t make a fuss about this ... -just put them in your freezer until you are ready to eat -them. The package, of course, contains trout. When no -one else can catch trout, John Roman can. He knows -every lake and river and brook and he uses nothing but -worms to bait his handmade fishing rod and gear. So -far as John is concerned, there isn’t a fish swimming that -won’t take a worm. He has caught trout that weighed -fifty pounds, and once he tangled with a sturgeon that -wanted to carry him to the bottom of the lake—and could -have.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The sturgeon encounter occurred about eight miles -from our house on a lake called Siskwit that is filled with -walleyes, bass, some smaller pan fish, and sturgeon. One -morning while fishing alone in his boat, John thought his -<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>hook had caught on a sunken log or rock. He edged the -boat forward slowly, dragging the hook, but nothing gave. -He moved the boat backward. Still no give. Finally John -had a feeling that he could reel up. He could, but only -very slowly. Then all at once, the sturgeon came straight -up from the water, looked at John, then dove straight -down, and the boat began to tip and go down, too. John -promptly cut the line. He is a regular Old Man of the Sea, -but he found no point, he said, in trying to land a fish -weighing perhaps two hundred pounds. The thing to do -when you are outmatched is cut the line.</p> - -<p class='c014'>John has met the problems of his own life, but the reports -of the world concern him. The danger of Fascists -appearing in the guise of saviors of democracy worries -him. He senses that men are losing their grip on values -and are in for a hard time. But what he cannot understand -are the reasons for moral apathy. If an “ignorant” -man in the North woods can see trouble at hand, is it possible, -he wonders, that others do not?</p> - -<p class='c015'>Bill Roman is one of John’s sons and the husband of -Waino’s only daughter, Lila. Bill used to run the filling -station in Cornucopia. Now he builds houses. But his -real genius lies in his understanding of boats and the water. -He would advise me: “Look at the barometer every -morning before you go out and believe it. If you’re -caught in a sudden squall, slow the motor and head for -the nearest shore. Don’t go against the wind. Stay in the -wake of the waves. Don’t buck the rollers and don’t be -proud. Keep calm and get into shore no matter where it -<span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>might be.” Bill is known for fabulous skill in getting out -of tight squeezes, and his advice is good enough for me.</p> - -<p class='c014'>He is also the only man I have known who could properly -be described as innocent. His philosophy of life is -built upon an utter incapacity to be moved by greed or -ambition. “Just live,” he keeps saying. “Just live. Don’t -fight it. Don’t compete. If you don’t like what you are -doing, change. Don’t be afraid to change. Live in harmony -with what you are and what you’ve got. Don’t fight -your abilities. Use them. I like living and I like to see -others live.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Bill tries to get on, so far as possible, without money—and -with Bill that is pretty far. “I try to never think about -money,” he says. “When you start thinking about money, -you get upset. It hurts you. That’s why I like Bark Point, -where we can live simply. I got my health, my wife, my -boy. I got my life. I don’t believe in success or failure. I -believe in life. I build for others and do the best I know -how. I listen to music on the radio. I go fishing. Every -day I learn something. Books are hard to come by here, -but I have re-read everything we’ve got. And I love the -winters here better than the summers. In the winter we -can see more of our friends and sit and talk.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“But money is evil. Money and ambition. Money always -worries me. I’m glad I’m without it. I have enough -without it. What I want, I can have. But the secret is to -know what to want.”</p> - -<p class='c015'>Over the years, we built additions to the house until -there were enough bedrooms for all of us, a sitting room -<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>with a magnificent fireplace, and even a Finnish bathhouse, -called a sauna. We enjoy taking steam baths and -have discovered the children do, too.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Raspberries and blueberries grow by the carload in -our field, there are apples on the trees and Sebago Salmon -in our lake. This particular salmon is a landlocked -fish, generally weighing between five and six pounds and -very handsome. His skin is covered with silver crosses, he -has a short, hooked mouth, and his flesh is orange. He is -caught by trolling.</p> - -<p class='c014'>A few miles from our house are rivers and streams seldom -discovered by tourists. Hence we can catch rainbows -weighing four and five pounds and browns often -weighing more. We have lakes where we can catch -northerners weighing twenty, thirty, forty pounds, and -walleyes by droves. We can take you to a lake where you -can catch a fish in one minute—not very big, but a -variety of pan fish seldom seen or caught anywhere -else. We can take you to a trout stream where you can -fish today, come back next week, and find your footprints -still in the sand, utterly unmolested.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It is a land of beauty and plenty, but nature is not soft. -Sometimes a Northeaster will blow for five days at a time. -Then you can stand at the window and watch the lake -turn into something of monumental ferocity, driving all -human endeavor from the scene. Trees are uprooted, windows -are smashed, telephone wires and power lines are -downed. Lightning slashes, the rumbling of thunder is -cataclysmic, and the rain comes. Often Waino would -call and warn of an impending storm and the necessity of -securing the boat with heavy rope. But sometimes it was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>too late, and we would have to go out in the teeth of the -early storm to do battle, rushing down the beach in our -heavy boots, heads covered with oilskins, beating against -the rising wind whose force took the breath out of you. -But the roaring surf, the lashing rain, the wind tearing at -every step, are tonic to the blood!</p> - -<p class='c014'>One night while standing at the window watching the -hard rain falling on the Bay, I was suddenly alerted to action -by the sight of water rushing over the embankment -which we had just planted with juniper. The torrent of -water washing away the earth was obviously going to -carry the young juniper plants along with it. There was -only one thing to do and it had to be done at once: cut a -canal in the path of the onrushing water to channel the -flood in a different direction.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Hope was napping. I awoke her, and armed with shovels, -we pitted ourselves against the storm. At once we -were up to our ankles in mud. Hope’s boots stuck and, -being heavy with child, she was unable to extricate herself. -My tugging only made matters worse and, with -shouts of anguish, we both toppled over into the mud. -But no damage was done and, muddy from head to foot, -wallowing in a slough of muck, laughing and gesturing -and shouting commands at each other, we got on with -cutting the canal. It was mean work, but there was something -exhilarating about it all and, when the challenge -was successfully met and we were in by the fire, quietly -drinking hot chocolate, a kind of grave satisfaction in -knowing that this was in the nature of things up here and -that we had responded to it as we should.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Bark Point is a good place for growing children as well -<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>as for tired adults. It is good for children to spend some -time in a place where a phrase such as “know the score” -is never heard, where nobody is out to win first prize, -where nobody is being urged continually to do something -and do it better, and where the environment is not a constant -assault upon quietness of the spirit. Children as -well as adults need to spend periods in a non-communicative -and non-competitive atmosphere. I am opposed to -all those camps and summer resorts set up to keep the -child engaged in a continuous round of play activities, -give the body all it wants, and pretend that an inner life -doesn’t exist.</p> - -<p class='c014'>At Bark Point, our children can learn something first -hand about the earth, the sky, the water. They plant and -watch things grow, build and watch things form. There -is no schedule and no routine, but every day is a busy day, -filled with natural activities that spring from inward urgings, -and the play they engage in is something indigenous -to themselves.</p> - -<p class='c015'>Before the lamprey eels decimated the Lake trout, -most of the men in the Bark Point area fished for a living. -Years ago, I was told, Bark Point boasted a school, a town -hall, a general store, even a post office. But now commercial -fishing is almost at an end—the fine Lake Superior -trout and whitefish are too scarce. So the bustle of the -once thriving fishing village is gone, along with the anxious -watch by those on shore when a storm comes up. No need -for concern now. Let it blow. No one is fishing.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Almost no one. But the few remain—marvelous, jolly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>fellows, rich with earthy humor, strong, dependable, -completely individualistic. Every other morning they -take their boats far out in the lake and lift the Pon Nets. -It is dangerous work, and thrilling, too, when from two -to three hundred pounds of whitefish and trout are caught -in one haul.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Nearly everyone is related and most of the children -have the same blue eyes and straw hair. But the children -grow up and discover there is nothing for them to do. -Fishing is finished, and about all that is left is to cut pulp -in the woods or become a handy man around one of the -towns. Farming is difficult. The season is so very short -and considerable capital is required to go into farming on -any large scale. Nobody has this kind of money.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Then, too, the old folk were beginning to hear for the -first time a new theme: the work is too hard. For a time, -this filled them with consternation. But they recognized -the sign of the times and even came to accept it. The -young people no longer were interested in working fifteen -and sixteen hours a day as their fathers had. They left -their homes and went to Superior or Duluth or St. Paul or -much farther. The few that remained stayed out of sheer -bullheadedness or innate wisdom. It was an almost deserted -place when I found it, and it has remained so all -these years.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Those who stayed became my friends and their world -is one I am proud and grateful to have entered. I have -played cribbage and horseshoes with them, gone with -them on picnics and outings, fished all day and sometimes -late at night. We have eaten, played, and worked -<span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>together, but most important to me has been listening to -them talk. Their conversation is direct, searching, and -terribly honest. Many of their questions bring pain, they -strike so keenly upon the wrongs in our world. I am used -to answering complicated questions—theirs possess the -simplicity that comes directly from the heart. Those are -the unanswerable questions.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I would often sit with them in dead silence around -the fire, five or six men dressed in rough clothing, their -powerful frames relaxed over a bottle of beer or a glass of -tea, each lost in his own thoughts. But this silence wasn’t -heavy—it was an alive silence. And when someone -spoke, it was not to engage in nonsense. Never have I -heard commonness or cheapness enter into their conversation. -When they talked, what they said had meaning. -It told something. A cow was sick. An axle from a car or -a truck or a tractor broke. The nets split in two. Soon the -herring season will be upon us. What partnerships will be -entered into this year? The weather is too dry or too -rainy. Someone is building a shed or a house. Someone -cut his thigh and needed thirty stitches. Someone needs -help in bringing in his hay.</p> - -<p class='c014'>In this world that is entirely elemental, each man -wrestles with the direct necessities of living. This is not -conducive to small talk, to worrying about losing a pound -or gaining a pound or figuring out where to spend one’s -free time. When there is time for relaxation, the talk usually -turns to old times, fables of the world as it “used to -be”—the giant fish once caught: rainbows weighing fifty -pounds, browns weighing seventy, steelheads by the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>droves. And behind all of this lies the constant awareness -that Lake Superior is an ocean, never to be trifled -with, never taken for granted.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The women are strongly built and beautiful, with low, -almost <a id='corr121.6'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='singsong'>sing-song</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_121.6'>sing-song</a></span> voices. Their “yes” is a “yah” so sweetly -inflected that you want immediately to imitate it, and -can’t. Their simple homes are handsomely furnished -through their own labors. When I dropped in, unexpected, -I was certain to receive a quiet, sincere greeting -that put me at ease and assured me I was no intruder. -There would be a glass of tea or coffee and a thick slice -of home-made bread spread with butter and a variety of -jams. Nearly everything in the household was made by -hand, all the clothing, even the shoes. And just about -everything outside the household, too, including the fine -boats.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Even today it is possible to live like a king at Bark -Point on fifteen hundred dollars a year—under one -condition: one must learn to endure loneliness and one -must be capable of doing things for himself.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The people around Bark Point have radios and television -sets, automobiles and tractors and other machines. -But the people come first, the machines second. Bark -Point people do not waste time questioning existence. -They laugh and eat and sleep without resorting to pills. -They have learned to renounce and to accept, but there is -no room in their lives for resignation and pessimism. However, -they do suspect that the world outside is mostly populated -by madmen, or, as one of my neighbors said to -me, “What do you call dogs that foam at the mouth?”</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>When I go to Bark Point, it occurs to me that what the -world needs is more private clubs, more private estates -and exclusive residential areas, more private centers of -entertainment, anything that will isolate the crass from -the mainstream of life and let them feed upon themselves. -Anything that will keep them away from the people of -Bark Point.</p> - -<p class='c015'>The master builder of Bark Point is a seventy-seven -year old man named Matt Leppalla. When one asks Matt -a question, his invariable reply is, “I’ll look of it.” “Look of -it” means that he will measure the problem, work it in his -mind, and provide the answer. He lives in a house built -entirely by his own hands. If he needs a tool for a job and -no such tool exists, he invents it. His energy and capacity -for sustained work is amazing for a man of any age. He -has built almost everything we possess at Bark Point.</p> - -<p class='c014'>A few summers ago, we decided to build a dock to -protect our beach and secure our boat against the fierce -Northeaster. So Matt and I took the boat and set out to -look for logs washed up on the shores of Bark Bay. There -was no hesitation on Matt’s part as we hurried from log -to log. “Good,” he would say, “this is cedar. No good, this -is poplar. This is good. This is Norway pine. No good, -this is rotten in the middle.” And so from log to log, Matt -in the lead with the canthook on his back and with me following -behind, trying as hard as I could to keep up.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When the selection had been made, Matt offered to -teach me how to tie the logs so we could tow them over -the lake to our shore. It looked easy, but it required an -<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>almost occult knowledge of weights and forces to determine -exactly the right place to tie the rope so the log -would not slip and jam the motor or slam against the side -of the boat. Everything there is to be known about leverage -Matt knows, including the most subtle use of ropes -and pulleys for least expense to the human back.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The building of the crib for our dock was one of the -wonders of the world, executed with the quickness and -sureness of a man who knows and loves what he is doing. -Or if any difficulty arose with material too stubborn to -bend to his thinking, I could virtually see him recast his -thought to fit the situation.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Matt is slight of build and the eyes behind his spectacles -are sparkling blue. When he first got the glasses, they -were not fitted to his satisfaction, so he improved them by -grinding the lenses himself. He reminds me in many ways -of my own father, who had a bit of Matt’s genius and versatility. -When I see Matt work, I seem to see my father -again ... building, planning, dreaming, trying to make -something out of nothing.</p> - -<p class='c013'>Ervin owns the general store in Herbster. Every week -he drives his truck to Duluth for supplies, carrying with -him a frayed, pocket-sized notebook in which he has written -down everything people have asked for. Once I had -a chance to look through this notebook which Ervin treasures -with his life. Only Ervin could possibly know what -was written in it.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Ervin’s capacity for eating is marvelous to behold. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>While the children stare at him in petrified wonder, he -will put together a sandwich of cheese, sausage, fish, butter, -meat balls, even strips of raw meat. His capacity for -work is equally limitless. He is a powerful man and can -wrestle with bags of cement all day long. But he cannot -catch fish! At least that is his story and his claim to fame -in the area: never to have caught a fish that amounted to -anything. I don’t believe a word of it.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Ervin fights many of the same business battles I have -fought with no capital and extended credit. He worries -about it, but the odds are a challenge to him. You cannot -long endure at Bark Point unless you are capable of meeting -challenges.</p> - -<p class='c014'>In addition to his appalling eating habits, Ervin chews -tobacco and is a horrifying master of the art. He showed -our boys the full range of techniques employed for spitting -out of a fast-moving truck, and they thought it was -wonderful. But he has also taught them all about the -bears and deer and foxes and wolves and other wild life -that abound in our forest. He helped me with the plans -for our house, with the boat, with the art of reading a -compass, and with the geography of the myriad lakes and -streams hidden throughout the area. Ervin knows everything -and says very little. He is easy to be with, and a -solid friendship based upon mutual respect has grown between -us.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When spring begins to come, something that has been -kept buried in our winter hearts can no longer be suppressed. -The children start saying, “We’ll be leaving for -Bark Point soon, won’t we?” One spring day when the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>children were on vacation from school, I packed the boys -into the car and we set out for an early visit to our spiritual -home. The day of our arrival was clear and beautiful. -The ice had gone out of the Bay and clumps of snow remained -only here and there. New grass was coming up -from the steaming earth. There were pink-flecked clouds -in the sky and a glorious smell everywhere that filled us -both with peace and exhilaration.</p> - -<p class='c014'>But early the next morning it began to snow, coming -down so thick and fast it was a sight to behold. My exclusively -summer experience of the North Country -warned me of nothing. We delighted in the snowy wonderland -seen from the snugness of the house, and bundled -up in heavy clothes and boots to go out and revel in it.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It snowed all through the night. On the following -morning, it seemed to be coming on stronger than ever. -I phoned Ervin—fortunately the telephone lines were -still working. He thought the snow might stop by evening.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“How are your supplies?” he said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Still o.k.,” I said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“What about fuel?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Waino gave me a supply of wood and brickettes for -the stove yesterday.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Have you got enough?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Yes—so far.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Good. As soon as it stops, I’ll be up with the truck.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>But the snow did not stop. The following day it lay ten -feet high and was still coming.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Ervin called again. “The roads are closed,” he said. “I -can’t get to you. Can you hold out?”</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>“Yes,” I said, “but I’m starting to cut up the furniture -for the stove and I’m worried about the children.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I’ll come up the minute I can get there,” he said, “but -I can’t do nothing about it yet.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>It snowed for three days and three nights without a -letup. I tried to keep awake, dozing in a chair, never daring -to let the fire go out. We had long since run out of -fuel oil, but luckily we had the wood-burning cook stove. -I broke up two tables, all the chairs, and was ruefully -contemplating the wooden dresser. The phone had gone -dead and we were completely isolated.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was night, the snow was up to the windows and it -was still coming on—a dark world shot with white flecks -dancing and swirling. The whole thing seemed completely -impossible. But it was happening and there was -nothing to do but wait it out.</p> - -<p class='c014'>We had no milk, but there was water and a small supply -of tea and coffee. There was flour, too, and we made bread -... bread without yeast or salt. It tasted terrible, but we -ate it and laughed about it. I read or played cribbage -with the boys. They played with their fishing reels, oiled -them, took them apart, put them back together, took them -apart again. We waited.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The morning the snow stopped we were greeted by -bright sunlight hot on the window panes. Everyone -jumped up and down and yelled, “Yay!”</p> - -<p class='c014'>But how to get out of the house? We were snowed in -completely.</p> - -<p class='c014'>About noon, Ervin called. The lines were fixed and -Bill Lloma was working like crazy with his tractor opening -<span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>the Bark Bay Road. Everyone had been alerted to -our plight and help would be on the way.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Several more hours passed. We were without food or -fuel, and I still hated the idea of chopping up that dresser. -Then all at once our savior was in sight: Ervin in his truck, -way down the main road and still unable to get anywhere -near our driveway.</p> - -<p class='c014'>There was no restraining the children in their excitement. -The yelling and shouting was enough to waken the -dead. I found myself laughing and yelling, too, and waving -madly to Ervin. We were all behaving as though we -were going to a picnic instead of getting out of a frightful -jam.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Finally Bill came lumbering up the road with his snow -plow and in fifteen minutes cut a huge pathway to the -house. We came out and danced around Ervin’s truck as -it backed slowly into the driveway.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Where’s your car?” Ervin asked.</p> - -<p class='c014'>We had to look around—it was completely buried. I -had even forgotten I had it. Working together, we cleared -the snow away. I tried starting the motor, but nothing -happened. Ervin attached a chain to the car and pulled -it up the road. This time the motor turned over, but so -suddenly (and my reflexes were so slow) that, before I -knew it, the car had swerved off the wet road into a ditch. -I was fit to be tied.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Getting the car onto the road from the muddy embankment -took an hour. Finally it was done and all was -well. We retired to the house and made a feast of the supplies -Ervin had brought, eating as though we were never -<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>likely to see food again, building Ervin-style sandwiches -and consuming them with Ervin gusto. Occasionally Ervin -would cast around and say something droll about the -absence of chairs and having to sit on the edge of a dresser. -Everything seemed hilariously funny. It was the best -party I ever had.</p> - -<p class='c015'>When June arrives, we organize our caravan and steal -away in the early hours of the morning: six children, the -maid, two cats, three birds, two Golden Retrievers, Hope -and I and all the luggage, packed into a station wagon. -Gypsies have to get out of town while the city sleeps.</p> - -<p class='c014'>At first our spirits are high. The babies, Amy and Lisa, -play or sit quietly. Then restlessness sets in. David and -Jonathan become fidgety. David playfully slaps Jonathan, -and the battle begins. I lose my temper and bawl -at both of them. Then Lisa gets tired and tries to sleep -on Hope and Amy and me in the front seat. Now Susan -wants some water, and David calls out from the back of -the wagon, “I’m sick.” Amy now wants to sleep, too, so -in the front seat we have: me at the wheel, Lisa, Amy, -Hope, and Big Joe in Hope’s arms. In the center of the -car are Susan, the maid, and the two dogs; in the back, -David and Jonathan, the birds and the cats, and everything -that we couldn’t tie on top in the luggage carrier.</p> - -<p class='c014'>But we are off! And amid confusion and frayed nerves—and -much laughter, also—we share a secret joy, a -gypsy joy, and the knowledge that our spiritual refuge -lies ahead and so many useless cares and dehumanizing -pressures drop farther and farther behind us.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>Bill Roman, who has made an art of living life simply, -worries about the inroads of those who seem determined -to despoil what remains of this crude but civilized outpost, -where I have learned so much about what is truly human. -He is concerned about the hunters who come up from the -big cities to slaughter deer and leave them rotting in the -fields. They are only on hand a short while, with their -shiny boots and gaudy jackets and their pockets full of -money, but they create nothing but noise and havoc. -When they finally leave, Bark Point repairs the damage, -but each year it is a little worse. In a few more years, Bill -fears, Bark Point could become a resort town like Mercer -or Eagle River. If it does, he says, he’ll move to Canada.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Personally, I don’t think we can afford to surrender any -more outposts—in our culture and in the remnants of -community living that still center around values that -make for human dignity. I still say: Let the despoilers -feed upon one another. Encourage their self-segregation, -away from the mainstream of life. Even give them junk -books, if that is all their feeble moments of introspection -can bear. But never, never surrender.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span> - <h3 class='c005'><span class='xxlarge'>10</span><br>Hope and I</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c013'>It was only after I had been on television and begun -receiving letters from viewers that I realized how seriously -interested people are in the personal lives of others. -Curiosity about one’s immediate neighbors is not intense -in a large city. Often you do not see enough of them -to get curious. You see more and know more of public figures -than of the person in the next apartment. Curiosity -about people in public life can become ridiculous when -exploited by press agents. But wanting to know more -about someone whom you have become interested in as a -public personality is as sincere and natural as the wish -to know more about the lives of those with whom you -have become acquainted in a more personal way.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Still, it was a surprise to me when people wrote to ask -who and what I was, where and how I lived, and all about -my wife and children. A surprise, but not an affront, for -when I receive such letters, I have exactly the same curiosity -about those who write them. I really would like to -know all about them.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>My personal life began on the West Side of Chicago. -<a id='corr131.2'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='we'>We</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_131.2'>We</a></span> lived at 1639 South Central Park Avenue, a neighborhood -of houses and trees and good back yards. In our -back yard we even had a duck pond with a duck in it, -not to mention the flowers and the grass that my father -tended so lovingly. My father was a tool and die maker. -He could speak and read several languages with ease, had -a marvelous sense of humor, and revered greatness. He -believed in two things: love and work. He mistrusted -those who did not.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Although my father died several years ago, my mother -is alive, and now in her late eighties. In the sixty-five years -of her life in this country, she has seldom left the kitchen, -yet she knows more about the human heart, about human -weakness and suffering, and about human caring than I -shall ever know. She is gentle and kind, and her adage to -me since childhood has been: Keep out of mischief—as -sound a bit of wisdom concerning conduct as you are -likely to find anywhere, not excluding Spinoza.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was an alive neighborhood, populated by people of -mixed origin, although predominantly Jewish. There was -plenty of activity on our street: kids practicing on horns, -playing fiddles, playing games—mostly baseball and -peg and stick. Peg and stick may require a bit of explanation -for the present younger generation. To start the -game, it is necessary to steal a broom. This is always -done with the confident expectation that this article is -something your mother will never miss. Cut off the handle, -so you have a stick about twenty-two inches long. -Also cut a seven inch peg. Now go out in the street and -with your penknife make a hole in the asphalt. In summer -<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>the pitch is tacky, so this is no problem. Stand by the -hole and, using the stick as a bat, knock the peg down the -street. Then mark the hole by putting the stick in it. Your -opponent must now take the peg, wherever it lies, and toss -it toward the stick. The place it falls is marked, and, of -course, as the turns go around, whoever gets the peg -closest to the hole wins the point.</p> - -<p class='c014'>But most of all there was an awful lot of talking—on -the streets, on the corner by the delicatessen, and among -people sitting on their front porches. Talk ... and lots -of laughter. And there were great good times at home, -especially in the evenings when my father told stories of -his sojourn in Europe, or his adventures in America, or -his day-to-day experiences at work.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I was the youngest child in a family of six children, -and my life revolved around such matters as dogs, reading, -and poetry. I had my own dog, but I also -caught every stray dog in the neighborhood, washed and -defleaed it, and anointed it with cologne (causing a great -rumpus when discovered by one of my sisters from whom -the cheap scent had been appropriated). My poetical -labors were not properly appreciated by my sisters, either, -who would collapse into gales of laughter when I interrupted -their bathroom sessions of beauty culture to read -them my latest verses.</p> - -<p class='c014'>My father built me a study in the basement and I set -up a program of studies for myself: chemistry one week, -physics the next, then mathematics, philosophy, etc. It -was a wonderful thing until I blew the place up in the -course of my chemical experiments. This ended my -career in the physical sciences.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>One summer I painted our house—a complete exterior -paint job utilizing only a one and one-half inch -brush. It took me from June to September, and finally -the neighbors were complaining to my mother about the -way she was working me. They didn’t know that I was in -no hurry to finish the job. It was not only a labor of love -so far as the painting went, but I was spending my time -up there in a glory of memorizing poetry and delivering -noble dissertations.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I was seldom seen without a book, and nobody regarded -this as particularly odd, for the sight of young -people reading on the streets, on their porches, on a favorite -bench in Douglas Park was common. It is not common -today. The only wonder is that I never toppled off a -curb or got killed crossing a street—one read as he -walked and paid little attention to the hazards of city living.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Furthermore, nobody told us, in school or elsewhere, -what a child between the ages of nine and twelve should -be reading and what he should read from twelve to fourteen, -etc. We read everything that took our fancy, -whether we understood it or not, from Nick Carter to -Kant and <i>Penrod and Sam</i> to Joyce. And when we became -infatuated with some writer, we stopped barely -short of total impersonation. When I read that Shelley -had carried crumbs in his pocket, I started to do likewise -and practically lived on breadcrumbs for days.</p> - -<p class='c014'>All of us who grew up in the Depression years on the -West Side remember vividly the men out of work and the -soup kitchens going on Ogden Avenue; houses and apartments -becoming crowded as married sons and daughters -<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>moved in with their families. People stayed home and listened -to the radio: Wayne King playing sweet music from -the Aragon Ballroom and Eddie Cantor singing that potatoes -are cheaper, so now’s the time to fall in love.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I went to school with the heels worn off my shoes and -sat in class with my overcoat on because there were two -holes in the seat of my pants. When the teacher asked a -question, I would reply with a sermon. I spent my days -fuming ... I hadn’t found myself. One day I encountered -the works of Schopenhauer and felt I had at last arrived -at an idea of life on a highly negative plane. A -short time later I presented my whole schema to a friend, -who blew it up completely.</p> - -<p class='c014'>My formal education was quite diverse. I never went -to school without working to foot the bill and in the course -of time did about everything, it seems, except selling shoes. -I was an usher at the Chicago Theatre (a vast, gaudy -temple of entertainment then featuring elaborate stage -shows as well as the latest movies), where I eventually became -Chief of Service. I was an errand boy and a newspaper -boy (selling papers on the corner of Wabash and -Van Buren for a dollar a night, seven o’clock to midnight). -I worked in a grocery store, a hardware store, a department -store. I was a bus boy and a dishwasher. I sold -men’s clothing, worked at the University of Chicago, and -wrote squibs for a neighborhood newspaper. I went to -Crane Junior College, to the old Lewis Institute, and -attended graduate courses at the University of Chicago. -And during all this, I took courses in every field that captured -my imagination or provoked my curiosity: neurology, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>philosophy, psychology, literature, sociology, anthropology, -languages (German, especially) ... everything.</p> - -<p class='c014'>One day, while I was still an undergraduate, a professor -whose heart I had captured through my ability to -recite from memory the <i>Ode to the West Wind</i>, took me -aside and assured me that if I were to be a teacher of literature, -which he suspected would be my goal in life, a -faculty position in a college or university English department -was not likely to come easily to a man named Brodsky. -Frankly, it was his suggestion that Stuart Brodsky -find another last name—at least if he wanted to become -an English teacher. “What name?” I said. “Any other -name that seems to fit,” he replied.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I took the suggestion up with my sisters. We thought -Brent might do nicely. Then I asked my father for his -opinion. He told me that no matter what I did with my -name, I would still be his son and be loved no less. It was -settled. At the age of nineteen, my name was legally -changed to Brent.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Brent or Brodsky, I taught incipient teachers at the -Chicago Teachers College. Then I lectured on Literary -Ideas at the University of Chicago’s downtown division. -The world took a nasty turn and I left teaching to enter -the Armed Forces. I spent twenty-seven months in the -army, becoming a Master Sergeant in charge of military -correspondence under Colonel Jack Van Meter. When a -commission was offered me, I asked for OCS training and -got it. But toward graduation time, the prospect of -signing up for two more years as a commissioned officer -was too much and I rejected it. The war was over. I was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>on my way to the vagaries of civil life and to becoming a -bookseller.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The Seven Stairs was born, grew, died. I found myself -a widower, endeavoring to maintain my sanity and my -household and fighting for commercial survival on Michigan -Avenue.</p> - -<p class='c014'>One day in 1956 a tall, pretty redhead named Daphne -Hersey grew tired of her job in one of the dress shops on -Michigan Avenue and came to work for me. She was a -Junior League girl, but a lot else beside. Before I knew -it, we had three Junior Leaguers working in the shop, and -I was wondering whether the shop was going to be swept -away in an aura of sophistication that was incomprehensible -to me. But my respect for Daphne and her integrity -remained limitless. And I had no notion of the improbable -consequences in the offing.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Nothing is easier than saying hello. The day Hope -walked in to chat with Daphne, the world seemed -simple. She and Daphne had attended Westover together. -They had grown up in the same milieu. Daphne introduced -Hope to me. I was three years a widower, absorbed -in my problems of family and business. Hope was a young -girl struggling to stay really alive, teaching at North Shore -Country Day School, living in the token independence -of a Near North Side apartment shared with another -girl. We chatted for a moment or two about books, and I -sold her a copy of a more than respectable best-selling -novel, <i>By Love Possessed</i>.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Summer was coming. I was intent upon taking my -children up to Bark Point. I would spend a week or ten -<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>days with them, leave them there with the maid and return -for two weeks in the city. Then back again to the -Lake. This was my summer routine. But Daphne wanted -a vacation, too, and we were short of help. While we were -discussing this dilemma, in walked Hope. Daphne asked -her what she was doing during her vacation from kindergarten -teaching. Nothing. And would she like to work -here for three weeks? Hope accepted. The next day I -left for the Lake. When I returned, Daphne would leave, -and by that time Hope would have learned her way -around. Together with our other girl in the shop, we -could hold the fort until Daphne came back. It was as -simple as that.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When, in due time, I returned, Daphne left and Hope -and I were thrown pretty much together. I loved working -with her, and she seemed thrilled with the bookstore. -It was a courtship almost unaware, then a falling in love -with all our might. And the probability of a good outcome -seemed almost negligible.</p> - -<p class='c014'>There <i>is</i> such a thing as “society.” It is not a clique or -gilded salon of arts and letters such as a Lionel Blitzsten -might assemble, but an ingrown family, far more tribal -than what is left of Judaism. In point of fact, the old West -Side no longer exists—its children, our family among -them, are scattered to the winds. But the North Shore, -beleaguered perhaps, is still an outpost of the fair families -of early entrepreneurs, a progeny of much grace anchored -to indescribable taboos.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The plain fact is, it calls for an act of consummate -heroism to withstand real hostility from one’s family. It -<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>is not only a matter of the ties of love. It is a matter of -who you are, finding and preserving this “who” ... -and you may lose it utterly if you deny your family, just -as you may lose it also by failing to break the bonds of -childhood.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Even when people try to be understanding and decent, -they can be tripped by their vocabulary. In the protective -and highly specialized environment in which Hope was -raised, anti-Semitism was as much a matter of vocabulary -as of practical experience. Even the mild jibes of pet -names often involved reference to purported Jewish traits. -This atmosphere is so total that those who breathe it -scarcely think about it.</p> - -<p class='c014'>This beautiful and vital girl with whom my heart had -become so deeply involved, brilliant and well-educated, -loved and admired by family and friends, could not possibly -make the break that our relationship would call for -without the most terrible kind of struggle. Hope’s parents -were dead, but she had an aunt and uncle and a sister and -brother. Their reaction to my impending descent upon -their world was one of violent shock and bitter protest.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Hope’s relatives were vitally concerned about what she -was getting herself into. As if I wasn’t! I think if they -had pointed out to her that, in addition to being Jewish, I -had three small children, that there was an age difference -involved, and that she herself might be running away -from some nameless fear, they would have stood a better -chance of prevailing. But the social impossibility of the -case seemed to be the overwhelming obstacle.</p> - -<p class='c014'>If it were all really a dreadful error, I could only pray -<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>that Hope might be convinced of it. I was afraid of marriage. -I couldn’t afford a love that was not meant to be. I -had to think not only of Hope and me, but of the children—they -couldn’t be subjected to another tragedy. There -mustn’t be a mistake.</p> - -<p class='c014'>To me, it was a terrible thing to have to remain passive, -to ask Hope to shoulder the whole burden of our relationship. -We sought out a psychoanalyst to help us—one I -had never met socially or in a business way (not easy; I -knew nearly all of them on a first name basis) and who, -if at all possible, was not Jewish. I did find such a man -and Hope arranged to see him. He gave her the facts -about the risks involved in marrying me. He also gave -assurance that she was neither neurotic nor in need of -analysis. And that threw the whole thing right back to -Hope again.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Hope left the city to hold counsel with herself. I -stayed and did likewise, on the crossroads of my own -experience. We had a hard time of it ... and love won -through, feeding, obviously, on struggle, obstacles, impossibilities, -and growing all the better for it.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I am sure God was beside me when I married Hope. -Since then, everything I do seems right and good. We do -everything together ... my life is empty when she is -gone even for a few days. Hope’s brother and sister have -learned that the “impossible” thing, social acceptance, -does not interest me, but that there are other areas of living -equally important. We are friends.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Life with love is not without struggle. The struggle is -continuous, but so is our love for each other and our family. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>With the addition of Amy Rebecca, Lisa Jane, and -Joseph Peter, the Brent children now number six. It gives -us much quiet amusement to hear parents complaining -about the difficulties of raising two or three. Hope is responsible -for naming Joseph Peter, our youngest. “He -looks so much like you and your family,” she said, “I think -it would be very wrong if we didn’t name him after your -father.” And so we did.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span> - <h3 class='c005'><span class='xxlarge'>11</span><br>My Affair with the Monster</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c013'>Among the things I have never planned to be, a television -performer ranks pretty high on the list.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I have already mentioned that the unlikely person who -initiated my relationship with the new Monster of the -Age was the wise and kindly Ben Kartman. Ben by this -time had left <i>Coronet Magazine</i> and was free lancing in -editorial and public relations work. I had not seen him -for some months when he came into the shop with a public -relations man named Max Cooper. Except for having -heard of instances in which they purportedly exercised -a dangerous power over gossip columnists, I knew nothing -about PR boys. I simply regarded them as suspect. -Consequently I should probably have taken a dim view -of the idea they came in to talk with me about—auditioning -for a television program—even if I hadn’t been -opposed on principle to television.</p> - -<p class='c014'>At the time, it seemed to me that television was the -most vicious technological influence to which humanity -<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>had been subjected since the automobile’s destruction of -the art of courtship as well as the meaning of the home. -The novelty of TV had not yet worn off, and it was still -a shock to walk into a living room and see a whole family -sitting before this menacing toy, silent and in semi-darkness, -never daring to utter a word while watching the -catsup run in some Western killing. I vowed that I would -never own a piece of apparatus which seemed so obviously -designed to diminish the image of man, enslave -his emotions, destroy his incentive, wreck his curiosity, -and contribute to total mental and moral atrophy. I -didn’t think it would be good for the book business, either.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Ben and Max didn’t sell me on television, but they did -make the audition seem a challenge. What could I do? I -had never taken a lesson in acting or public speaking in -my life. When I spoke extemporaneously, I often rambled. -In fact, that was my approach to talking and to -teaching. Sticking to the subject never bothered me ... -or breaking the rules; I didn’t know any of them. I just -talked. All I had was a spontaneity springing from a love -of ideas and of people. I laid these cards on the table as -carefully as I could, but Cooper’s only response was, “You -are a raw talent. I’m sure you can make it.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Make what? On the morning of the auditions, I arrived -at the Civic Theatre (an adjunct to the Chicago -Civic Opera House which at that time had been taken -over as a television studio—this was while Chicago was -still active in the game of creating for the medium) and I -was as nervous as a debutante on the threshold of her -debut. A hundred men and women were standing in the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>wings, and the fact that I knew some of them and had -sold them books made matters worse. All at once, I knew -that I was at war with them all. I was competing for a role -and I had to be better than the rest.</p> - -<p class='c014'>We were instructed to come out on the stage at a given -signal, peer toward a camera marked by two red eyes, -and talk, sing, dance, or perform in our fashion for three -minutes. By the time my turn came up, I was ready to -fall on my face from sheer nervous exhaustion. The red -lights blinked on, and I began to talk. I talked for three -minutes and was waved off.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I had had enough lecture experience to feel the incompleteness -of such an experience. No audience, no response, -no nothing, just: your three minutes are up (after -all the tension and readiness to go out and perform). I -hurried out of the theatre and back to the store, where I -paced around like a wild beast. I was certain that I had -failed. Everything that I had been building up for -seemed cut out from under me, and I could only talk to -people or wrap their packages in a mechanical daze.</p> - -<p class='c014'>At five o’clock in the afternoon the spell was broken. -Max came in along with a towering young man of massive -build who extended a huge hand toward me, crying, “Let -me be the very first to congratulate you. You have a television -program for the next thirteen weeks!”</p> - -<p class='c014'>At my total astonishment, he threw back his head and -emitted a Tarzan laugh. I liked him very much, but I -could not place him at all. He was Albert Dekker, an -actor who has probably appeared in more Western movies -than any other star and who at that time was acting in a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>play in Chicago. He was a friend of Cooper’s and subsequently -a friend of mine, frequently accompanying me -to the television studio during the remainder of his run -in Chicago.</p> - -<p class='c014'>But at that moment I could only sputter and stutter -and wheel around as though preparing for a flying leap, -and the next few minutes gave way to complete pandemonium, -as everyone shared in my sudden good fortune.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The show ran for more than thirteen weeks. It lasted a -year. It was sandwiched between a show about nursing -and one about cooking. It was a fifteen minute slot, but in -the course of this time I had to do three commercials—opening -refrigerators and going into the wonders thereof, -selling cosmetics, even houses. It was a mess. During the -entire year, nobody ever evinced any interest in building -the show, and when it was finally cancelled, I was torn -between hurt pride and recognition of an obvious godsend. -Now and then I had received a small amount of -critical acclaim, but on the whole, my first venture into -television seemed a disaster, financially as well as spiritually. -And I hate failure.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Well, there was no use apologizing. I had had my -chance, a whole year of it, and I didn’t make the grade. -The poor time slot, the overloading of commercials were -no excuse. I could lick my wounds and say, “Nothing -lasts forever. Television is television. They squeeze you -out and throw you out.” But in my heart I knew that the -show had never had an audience because it was not good -enough. So it ended in failure, and along with it, my relations -with Max Cooper.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>For two years, I was away from television entirely, except -for an occasional call from Dan Schuffman of WBKB -asking me to pinch hit for someone who was taken ill. -Among those for whom I served as proxy was Tom Duggan, -a real good guy who developed considerable local -fame by getting into one scrap after another and finally, -after getting into the biggest scrap of all, practically being -deported from Chicago to pursue the same career in -Southern California where he continues to be a nightly -success.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Although it seemed to me from time to time that glimmerings -of creativity could be detected in the television -field, I no longer had any serious interest in the medium. -When, shortly after Hope and I were married, we gave -an autographing party for Walter Schimmer, a local TV -and radio producer who had written a book called, <i>What -Have You Done for Me Lately?</i>, the TV relationship was -incidental to the objective of boosting a Chicago writer. -One of the guests at the party was the station chief of -WBKB, Sterling (Red) Quinlan. I had previously met -him only casually and was surprised to be drawn into a -literary conversation with him, during which he told me -that he was working on a book, to be called, <i>The Merger</i>. -The next day, he sent me the manuscript to read and I -found it most interesting, particularly as it dealt with a -phase in the development of the broadcasting industry, -about which Quinlan, as an American Broadcasting Company -vice president, obviously knew a great deal. This -was a period during which any number of novels with a -background of Big Business were being published. I -<span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>thought Quinlan had done an unusually honest job with it -and wrote him a note to this effect when I returned the -manuscript.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Several weeks later, I received a phone call from -Quinlan which sounded quite different from the tough-minded -executive of my superficial acquaintance. -“What’s wrong with my book?” he said. “No one wants -to publish it.” He really wanted to know where he had -gone wrong.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I tried to explain the vagaries of publishing and of publishers’ -tastes and how it was a matter of timing and -placement with certain publishers who publish certain -types of things. But I could see this made little sense to -Quinlan, because there is really not much sense <i>in</i> it. -Finally I said, “Look, send the book over. You need a front -runner. Maybe I can break down a door for you.” I’m -sure he didn’t believe me, but he sent the book over anyway.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I sent the manuscript to Ken McCormick, editor-in-chief -at Doubleday, after phoning to tell him about it, -and as luck would have it, Ken liked the book and made -an offer. I’m sure Quinlan thought I was some kind of -wizard, and of course I was delighted to have been able -to help.</p> - -<p class='c014'>With Red’s book in the process of being published, I -turned my mind to other matters—mostly the sheer joy -of living. Business was strong, Hope and I were enjoying -the best of good times, we were soon to have a child, we -were floating on a cloud and wanted no interference from -anything. I avoided phone calls and invitations and put -<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>away all thoughts of becoming anything in the public -eye. I just wanted to be a good bookseller, earn a living, -spend time with my family, and leave the world alone.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was in this frame of mind that I received a call one -day from Quinlan asking me to join him for lunch at the -Tavern Club (a businessmen’s luncheon club located -near the WBKB studios). I was interested in Red’s literary -ambitions and was glad to accept.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Red Quinlan is more than a typical example of a -“pulled up by my own boot straps” success story. He is a -fairly tall man with reddish hair, a white, smooth face, -and blue eyes that can change from pure murder to the -softness that only Irish eyes can take on. He knows -every way to survive the jungle and moves with the -slightly spread foot and duck walk of a man treading a -world built on sand. One part of his mind deals only -with business; the other part is dedicated to a sensitive -appreciation of the written word and a consuming desire -to write a good book. At the beginning he may have -wanted to make the best seller list, but his concern is now -with truth and craftsmanship and with what it means to -be a writer. He is a fascinating man who has done much -for me.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Two other men joined us for lunch at the club. One -was a heavy-set man of Greek descent named Peter -DeMet who controlled large interests in the television -world. The other was Matt Veracker, general manager of -WBKB. We ate a good lunch and talked in generalities -until Quinlan asked me if I had read any good books -lately. I had just finished a collection of short stories by -<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>Albert Camus and was particularly taken by a piece -called, “Artist at Work.” As I told the story, DeMet -seemed suddenly very interested. But the conversation -went no further. We shook hands all around and broke -up.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Less than an hour later, Quinlan called me at the shop -and asked me to come right over to his office. I could tell -as I walked in that something was on the fire. Red came -around the desk and sat down with me on the couch. -“Stuart,” he said, “we have an open half hour following a -new science show that the University of Chicago is sponsoring. -How would you like to have it?” This was in 1958 -when astro-physics had burst upon the public consciousness. -Hence the science show.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I’ve even thought of the name for your show,” Quinlan -continued. “Books and Brent.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I still remained silent, caught in an enormous conflict. -I <i>did</i> want the show ... to prove something to myself. -But at the same time I didn’t want to be bothered, I didn’t -want to get caught up in the hours of study the job entailed. -And I no longer needed the money or a listing in -the local TV guides to bolster my ego. Yet I wanted the -chance again.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Red noted my hesitation and, although slightly nettled -by my lack of enthusiasm, recognized that I was not -giving him a come-on. He went to the phone and said, -“Ask Dan Schuffman to step in here.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Danny took over the argument. The price was set, with -promise of a raise within twelve weeks. The show would -run from September through June, no cancellation clause, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>no commercials sandwiched in to break up the continuity -of my presentation. I had complete control over -the choice of books and what I would say about them. -Everything was settled. Now all I had to do was tell -Hope!</p> - -<p class='c014'>It wasn’t easy. Hope knew something was on my mind -and refrained from asking about it until the children were -in bed. Then I told my story. It would be five days a -week at the frightening hour of eight o’clock in the morning. -Hope took the whole thing in and accepted the situation. -But we both had strong misgivings.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I went to work. Each book had to be read and pondered -the night before I reviewed it. Asking myself of -each volume what in essence it was really about, what -meanings and values it pointed to, was the crux of the -matter and a most difficult undertaking. Every morning -I delivered my presentation and then ran to the bookstore. -I came home at six, had dinner, and started preparing -for the next morning. It was impossible to entertain -or to see friends, and I was half dead from lack of sleep. -Finally, to lessen the strain of five shows a week, Red -suggested that Hope appear with me on the Friday shows -for a question and answer session, cutting the formal reviews -to four a week. Again it took some persuading—Hope -would have nothing to do with it unless she -“looked” right, “sounded” right, and could offer questions -that were sincere and significant. She did all of these -things superbly and for the next three years appeared -with me every Friday.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Still, it was a grueling task. I wanted to give the very -<span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>best I could each day, and I felt that I was being drained. -But what was really killing my drive was the suspicion -that I was working in a vacuum. After all, who could be -viewing my dissertations on the problems of man and the -universe at eight in the morning? I decided it would -probably be appreciated all around if I quit like a gentleman. -So one morning, after about eight weeks of giving -my all to what I judged to be a totally imaginary audience, -I <a id='corr150.9'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='interupted'>interrupted</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_150.9'>interrupted</a></span> whatever I was talking about and said, -“You know, I don’t think anyone is watching this program. -I’m very tired of peering into two red eyes and -talking books just for the sake of talking. I believe I’ll -quit.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>What I really meant to say, of course, was, “If anyone -is watching, won’t he please drop me a note and say so.” -But it didn’t come out that way. I walked out of the studio -thinking it was all over.</p> - -<p class='c014'>To my great astonishment, Quinlan soon reached me -by phone at the shop, saying, “What are you trying to do? -Get me killed? The phone has been ringing here all morning -with people demanding to know why I’m firing you! -Did you say that on the air?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I hastened to explain and told him what I did say. The -following day hundreds of letters arrived. I suddenly -realized that I had an audience.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Hope and I were thrilled and went to work with renewed -vigor. The mail continued to grow. At eight a.m. -people were viewing and listening and, of all things, writing -to me—not only housewives, but also teachers, librarians, -doctors, lawyers, occasional ministers. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>Newspaper columnists became interested and reviews were -flattering to a point where I was afraid I might begin to -take myself seriously.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Another thing was also happening. Although I never -mentioned on the air that I had a bookstore, people began -to call the store asking for books I had reviewed. Other -bookstores found that Books and Brent was stimulating -their business, and some of them, particularly in outlying -areas, took it upon themselves to write notes to the publishers -about what was happening. I began to wonder if -what the book business needed generally wasn’t a coast -to coast TV bookshow.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Not long after these thoughts had formed in my mind, -Pete DeMet asked me to come and see him at the hotel -where he was staying. When I arrived, I found his room -filled with men ... some kind of important meeting was -just breaking up. Finally they dispersed and I was able -to sit down with Pete. He told me he wanted to create a -TV book of the month show, which he was ready to back -to the hilt. He would investigate the possibility of getting -the major publishers to pay for some of the time—the -rest would be sold to other sponsors. Apparently he and -his organization had the genius required to market such -a thing. In any event, his gospel was “success” and he -evidently saw in me another way to be successful.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I always had mixed reactions to this powerful, heavy-faced -man with his white silk shirts and his, to me, mysterious -world of promotional enterprise. He had been in -the automobile business and subsequently acquired ownership -of successful network shows, particularly in the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>sports field, and no one seemed to doubt that he could -do anything he set his mind to.</p> - -<p class='c014'>He was always forthright in his relations with me. He -boasted that he had never read a book and never intended -to, but he saw in my work a vision of something -he wanted to be part of. But he also insisted: “If I take -you on, I own you.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Contracts were being drawn up, but Hope and I decided -that although the amount of money being offered -me—$130,000 for nine months of work—seemed -extraordinary, the only thing to do was to turn the offer -down.</p> - -<p class='c014'>So I went to see Pete and told him the deal was off. The -money was wonderful, but so was my marriage, my personal -life. I couldn’t see myself catching a plane to the -West Coast on a moment’s notice, only to be told that I -was heading for the East Coast the following week. There -might be some excitement in such a frenetic pace, but I -was getting too old for that sort of thing, and I didn’t -need the pace and the noise to persuade me that I was -living.</p> - -<p class='c014'>My would-be benefactor looked at me as though I had -gone out of my mind, but he let me go without any further -badgering.</p> - -<p class='c014'>By this time I had become more than a little intrigued -with the Frank Buck approach to capturing live talent. -On the next occasion DeMet pressed me to sign the contract, -he assured me that I wasn’t nearly as good or important -as I thought I was. They were not at all certain, -he said, of my “acceptance” in various markets, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>furthermore there was threat now of replacing me altogether: -some people felt that a Clifton Fadiman or a Vincent -Price with a “ready-made” or “built-in” audience -would be distinctly preferable to someone completely -unknown outside of Chicago. It would take a lot of adroit -PR work to build up the ratings for an unknown.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I couldn’t contradict him, and happily I did not feel -smart-alecky enough to tell him, “Go ahead and get those -fellows if you think they can bring a book to life better -than I can.” I simply refused to sign without the consent -of my wife.</p> - -<p class='c014'>That night I was in the midst of reporting the day’s -events to Hope when the phone rang. Hope answered. -It was for me: Pete saying, “Can I come over? I <i>must</i> see -you now.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>A half hour later Pete was with us, going through the -entire proposition and concluding by saying, “You’ll do -everything I tell you to do, and you’ll make a fortune. -We’ll all make money.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Hope looked Mr. DeMet squarely in the eyes and said, -“Money isn’t the God of this household and at the moment -I can’t say I enjoy being here with you.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>In the stunned silence that followed, I was seized with -a feeling of terrible embarrassment over our attacking -Pete DeMet on a level so totally removed from his frame -of reference or the very principles of his existence. A -few minutes later, Pete got his hat and left. I was sure -the whole thing was finished.</p> - -<p class='c014'>As it happened, it was just the beginning. One of our -best friends, in or out of television, was the late Beuhlah -<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>Zackary, producer of “Kukla, Fran and Ollie” and as fine -a spirit as I have ever known. She used to say to me, “If -I can only discover exactly what makes you tick, I’ll -make you a household name throughout the nation.” -Had she lived, I’m convinced she would have done it. In -any event, it was Beuhlah at this point who saw merit -lurking somewhere beneath the high pressure and convinced -Hope and me that we should explore the matter -further. Finally we consented to go ahead, provided Jack -Pritzker act as our attorney and read every line of every -paper (including the dotting of i’s and the crossing of t’s) -before it was signed. Things were agreed upon to everyone’s -satisfaction, and I was in the Pete DeMet organization.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I had confided in Hardwick Moseley at Houghton -Mifflin about the enterprise and he wrote to me (in -March of 1959): “I do hope the DeMet deal on Books -and Brent goes through and that you get your rightful -share of the plunder. You know I always expected something -like this. I am delighted that it is happening so -soon. When you get time why not let me know a little of -the detail. If we can get you on in the high grass and a -variety of stations everywhere it will be the best thing -that has happened to the book business in years because -you do sell books.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>It seemed a long time since Hardwick had lifted me -from the depths by writing me that I <i>had</i> to remain a -bookseller, no matter what.</p> - -<p class='c014'>But everything fell through from the very beginning. -The money Pete hoped to raise from the publishing industry -<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>failed to materialize at all. Television does not sell -books, the publishers chorused. From my end, I was assailed -by doubts because I was never invited to present -the proposition to the publishers with whom I was most -intimately acquainted. From Pete’s end, there was anger -and frustration when the industry would not buy something -which he was convinced might prove their economic -salvation. He decided to look for other markets.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Production was scheduled to start in September. But -by this time other things had taken precedence over -Books and Brent. Pete entered into a real estate promotion -to develop a kind of Disney wonderland in New York -called Freedom Land. His lawyer, Milt Raynor, wrote to -me in flattering terms about myself and the book project, -but indicated that for the time being the undertaking -would have to be shelved.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was a letdown. But the irony of the thing was that a -promotional genius like Pete could be so fascinated by the -publishing field and what might be done for it, and then -so totally discouraged by the supineness, invincible ignorance, -and general reluctance of an enormous, potentially -very profitable industry to take even modest advantage -of the only advertising medium that might bring it before -the public. Pete found only one publisher actively encouraging. -The rest were negative.</p> - -<p class='c014'>This was the idea they were offered: I was to review, -on a network show, books selected by myself from the -lists of all publishers. In our experience in Chicago, although -I rarely, if ever, suggested that anyone rush -down to his neighborhood bookstore (if any) and buy -<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>the book in question, every bookstore in the area felt the -impact of my lectures. The instances in which my own -store sold hundreds of books in a week because of a review -I had given were fantastic—and more frequently -than not the very large downtown stores considerably -outsold my own shop on the same volume, for I was not -engaged in self-advertising. This is something unique -in our day, but not in publishing experience, for Alexander -Woollcott used to have the same effect through his -radio broadcasts. He was, of course, a national figure -... but not in a popular sense until he went on the -radio. Publishers were aware of all this, but they were -not convinced.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Pete was convinced. He believed in me because he -saw the results of the job I was doing in a very difficult -city and saw no obstacle to doing at least as much in -other cities. He was an entrepreneur, but perfectly willing -to try the idea of wedding television to culture. Actually, -I was never a party to any of the planning, any -of the strategy, any of the meetings held with publishers -or their representatives. To this day, I know nothing of -what actually went on. I was just the talent, and all I -knew was that there was a clause in the contract that -required Pete to put the show on the road no later than -September 30, 1959, or else I was free to return to my -local television commitments. The option was not picked -up, and that was that.</p> - -<p class='c014'>As I mulled the whole thing over at Bark Point, a comment -of my father’s kept running through my mind: -“When is a man a man? Only when he can stand up to -his bad luck.”</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>Of course, there was no saying whether the luck was -really bad—only that what I envisioned for the future -was certainly being held in abeyance. I came back for -another year of Chicago television, much like the year -before, except for the feeling that I was bringing more -experience to it.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was the letters that kept me persuaded I was right. -In spite of the hour, with wives kissing husbands off to -work and mothers frantically preparing breakfast and -dressing children for school, people were listening and, -in increasing number, writing. Greater numbers of people -were searching for answers to forgotten questions, or -driven, perhaps, back to fundamental questions and to -restating them. Hope and I found all this mail a tremendous -stimulus. We returned to our city routine. Every -evening I came home from the bookstore, had dinner, -played or talked with the children, then sat down to read, -while Hope read or knitted or mended or listened to -music. At midnight we took a short walk to the corner -drugstore with Mr. Toast, our Golden Retriever, and had -a cup of hot chocolate. These moments were the best of -the whole day.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Getting to the studio in the morning was never easy, -and on Fridays when we made the mad rush together it -was more than usually frantic. Hope is not easy to -awaken and would be engaged, more often than not, as -we raced across the street like maniacs toward our -parked car, in the final acts of dressing, zipping up her -skirt, straightening her hair, trying to find her lipstick. -Sometimes we barely made it ahead of the cancellation -period—five minutes before showtime, but we always -<span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>managed. Then when the ordeal was over, it was perfectly -delicious to go out for coffee, swearing solemnly, -absolutely, never again would we oversleep ... until -the next time.</p> - -<p class='c014'>But why were we doing it? The financial rewards for -an unsponsored, sustaining program simply bore no relation -whatever to the effort involved. Finally Quinlan -called me in and suggested that since the networks didn’t -seem interested, it might be a good idea to form an organization -and see if I couldn’t sell the show myself.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Hy Abrams, my lawyer and tennis partner, and his -brother-in-law, David Linn, often used to ask why I didn’t -do anything about promoting the show, to which my answer -normally was: “Do what?” But now, with Red’s insistence, -I had a feeling that perhaps the time was ripe. -Perhaps in the present era of political, economic, and -spiritual confusion, people might be becoming worried, -harassed, clipped, chipped, agonized enough for a return -to reading. They might be susceptible.</p> - -<p class='c014'>David was all for it, and we called a meeting, bringing -together, as I recall, Ira Blitzsten, Sidney Morris, Adolph -Werthheimer, and my brother-in-law, Milton Gilbert. I -made the presentation, outlining not only the prospect -but also the likelihood of absolute failure. Together we -created the Stuart Brent Enterprises and hired a man to -run the show. Again the idea was to sell the thing to the -publishing industry. The project hardly got off the -ground, yet our case seemed an extremely sound one.</p> - -<p class='c014'>To begin with, we surveyed a thousand letters that had -been written to the Books and Brent show. A summary -of the survey showed:</p> - - <ul class='survey'> - <li><span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>Of the 1000 letters read, 705 or 70.5% had bought one or more books due to - Stuart’s review. Some writers had bought as many as ten books. Many listed the books - bought and several enclosed sales slips. - - </li> - <li class='c004'>Of the 1000 letters read, 107 or 10.7% planned to buy in - the near future. Many of these pointed out the difficulties of buying books in the - suburbs, where there are few bookstores. - - </li> - <li class='c004'>Of the 1000 letters read, 188 or 18.8% wrote “keep up the - good work” type of letters. There were requests for book lists, particularly from - librarians. A number suggested starting a book club. - - </li> - <li class='c004'>Libraries, bookstores, and publishers were represented. The - letters showed a good cross section of the community, both economically and age-wise. - </li> - </ul> - -<p class='c015'>David Lande, of Brason Associates, a distributing -agency for publishers, helped the cause by writing to Mac -Albert, of Simon and Schuster, a letter that said: “While -this may not be news to you, I thought you might be interested -in knowing that the Stuart Brent book review -program has caught on like ‘wildfire’ in this area. Our -personal experience has been that Stuart Brent has made -more best sellers than Jack Paar. If this is good information -for you, use it—if not, we’re still good friends.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I went to New York and had an opportunity to talk -with Mr. Simon, of Simon and Schuster, along with other -editors, publishers, and booksellers. Mr. Simon said, “I -like you because you are not interested in the I.Q. of man, -but in his C.Q.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“What, sir,” I said, “is the C.Q.?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“His cultural quotient,” he replied. Then he said: -“The book business is exploding. We have a lot of new -<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>schools, a lot of new libraries. So long as we believe that -a child must attend school until eighteen years of age, -we will need a great many textbooks. People are hungry -for a lot of new things. Books are one way of appeasing -that new hunger. No matter where you go or how small -the community, you will usually find a new library building -and new schools. The book business has a new, great -future. We need more good writers to fill the need for -books these days. That’s our problem, finding new writers, -good writers.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Most of the major New York publishers and some of -the smaller ones bought time on Books and Brent to help -initiate its showing on WOR-TV. The pre-taped half-hour -shows made their debut simultaneously in New -York and Los Angeles on September 12, 1960. In the October -26 issue of <i>Variety</i>, the showbusiness weekly, Thyra -Samter Winslow said: “The best of the new live shows is -certainly Stuart Brent, who reviews books, and books -only, daily Monday through Friday, on WOR-TV.... -His style is easy, intimate, calm, interesting. Who knows? -He may give just the fillip needed to cause a renaissance -of reading by the home girls. And about time, too!”</p> - -<p class='c014'>In Chicago, Paul Molloy, the <i>Sun-Times</i> columnist, -who had followed this apparent breakthrough with great -enthusiasm, commented on the record of 2,700 letters -received during the first four weeks of the broadcasts. -“More interesting,” he said, “than the plaudits, however, -is the fact that Brent went out on his own and sold the -show because he’s convinced there’s a market for it. Most -broadcasters aren’t, but they’ll have to come around to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>it. For 2,700 letters in four weeks is a lot of reaction. -Even The Untouchables doesn’t touch this record. For -my part, I find Brent the most scholarly and at the same -time most down to earth teletalker in Chicago today. I’ve -yet to leave one of his shows without having learned—or -at least thought—something.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>But in spite of all the good sendoffs, TV syndication of -Books and Brent failed to pick up the additional sponsorship -necessary to make it a going concern. Hal Phillips, -program director of KHJ-TV in Los Angeles, wrote: -“After much discussion and consideration, we have determined -that we will not be continuing with the ‘Books and -Brent’ series after Friday, December 2, 1960. This in no -way reflects upon our feeling of the top quality and standard -of the program. The decision is based upon the lack -of sales potential, etc. We have liked this series and have -had fine viewer response from it and regret that we will -have to discontinue these programs.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>This time, when my venture crumbled, I did not feel -affected too deeply. I continued with my daily broadcasts -from WBKB, fully prepared to accept their demise -also. By this time I had a realistic sense of the pressures -to which this industry is subject, and I knew this was a -world in which I could not afford to get involved. At the -end of my third successive year, the rumors began to circulate. -Then Danny Schuffman dropped a hint at lunch -one day. Danny has been carefully schooled in the diplomacy -of the television jungle and unless you were -listening with a third ear you would probably never catch -the veiled meaning of the innocent remark.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>After all, while nobody questioned the public service -value of the show, the fact remained that the “rating” was -at a standstill and there was apparently no possibility of -getting a sponsor. At the same time that an estimated -20,000 were viewing me, 46,000 were supposed to be -watching something on another channel, 61,000 on another, -and 70,000 on still another. The competition must -be met. The parent company in New York wants higher -ratings. The stockholders want higher profits. Five days -a week is too much exposure anyway. Books and Brent -has had it. In a world about equally divided between -those who are scared to death and those too bored to do -anything anyway, the soundness of these operational judgments -can scarcely be questioned.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When, finally, Red Quinlan got around to telling me all -about this, I knew what was coming and offered no objections. -It would have been inconceivable for us to part except -as friends. And my mild, husbandly trepidation -about breaking the news to Hope proved utterly groundless. -She was simply delighted.</p> - -<p class='c014'>During the last weeks of my daily broadcasts, I planned -every show with the greatest care and instead of reviewing -new and popular fiction and non-fiction, I chose the -most profound works that I felt capable of dealing with. -In succession, I talked on Mann’s <i>The Magic Mountain</i>, -Proust’s <i>Remembrance of Things Past</i>, Joyce’s <i>Ulysses</i>, -Kafka’s <i>The Trial</i>, Camus’ <i>The Stranger</i>, Galsworthy’s -short story, <i>Quality</i>, Northrop’s <i>Philosophical Anthropology</i>, -Hemingway’s <i>The Old Man and the Sea</i>, <i>Hamlet</i>, -<i>Job</i>, <i>Faust</i>, and <i>Peer Gynt</i>, Fromm’s <i>The Art of Loving</i>, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>Erickson’s <i>Childhood and Society</i>, Huxley’s <i>Brave New -World</i>, Dostoevski’s <i>Crime and Punishment</i>; <i>Four Modern -American Writers</i>, and Stendahl’s <i>The Red and the -Black</i>. It was a pretty wild course in Western literature -and the results were astounding, not only in viewer response, -but also in the run on these books experienced by -bookstores throughout the city and the suburbs.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Demand was particularly sensational for Father du -Chardin’s <i>The Phenomena of Man</i>, also included in this -series. A check of bookstores in the area showed sales or -orders of approximately 900 copies in a single day. Over -2300 copies of this one title were sold in less than one -month. Our shop sold almost 600 copies. A. C. McClurg’s -reported: “We had 375 copies of <i>Phenomena of Man</i> on -hand before Brent’s review. By 3:30 that afternoon we -sold them all and wired Harper and Brothers for 500 -more.” McClurg’s had moved only 150 copies of the -book during the previous five months.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When I reviewed <i>The Red and the Black</i>, we had only -ten copies in stock at the shop (in the Modern Library -edition) and sold them out immediately. We tried picking -up more from McClurg’s, but they too were sold out. -I then called one of the large department store book sections -to see how they were doing. The clerk who answered -the phone said, “No, we don’t have a copy in stock. We’re -all sold out.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Was there a run on the book?” I said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Yes, as a matter of fact there was.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Can you tell me the reason?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Yes, you see they’ve just made a movie out of the book.”</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>He almost had me persuaded until I checked the theatres. -There was no such movie—not playing Chicago, -anyway.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Since I continually counseled men and women to accept -life, to live it, to change themselves if necessary, but -never to turn against creation or to abandon love and -hope, never to fall for the machine or the corporation or -to look for Father in their stocks and bonds, I was hardly -in a position—even armed with the facts and figures—to -try to fight the organization for the saving of Books and -Brent. I did, however, two weeks before the series ended, -take the audience into my confidence and explain the situation -as fairly as I could. Mr. Quinlan had my talk -monitored and agreed that I handled the matter with -sincerity and truthfulness. There was nothing Red could -do—he was tied to an organization that was too impersonal -to respond to the concerns of a mere 20,000 people. -We understood each other perfectly on this score.</p> - -<p class='c014'>But what happened after my announcement was something -neither of us ever expected, even though we knew -there were some people out there who bought books and -wrote heartwarming letters. Phone calls began coming -into the studio by the hundreds, letters by the thousands. -One late afternoon, Red called me and said, “I knew you -were good, but not that good. I just got a call from the -asylum at Manteno protesting your cancellation. Even -the madmen like you.” We both laughed but we were -touched, too.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Letters, telegrams, and even long distance phone calls -began to plague the chairman of the board in New York -<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>City. Letters by the score were sent to Mr. Minow in -Washington. But the most beautiful letters were those -directed to Hope and me, on every kind of paper, written -in every kind of hand, some even in foreign languages. -Until this has happened to you, it is impossible to imagine -the feeling. The meaning of a mass medium strikes you -and all at once it seems worthwhile to cope with the whole -shabby machinery if you are able to serve through it.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Hope and I sat reading every bit of mail late into the -night. She said: “Do you remember telling me what -F. Scott Fitzgerald said?” I looked puzzled. “He said that -America is a willingness of the heart,” she prompted.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I have indicated that Red Quinlan is a man who knows -his business and his way around in it, and that he is also -a man deeply enamored of the world of letters. He was -even less ready than I to call it quits. He invited me to -lunch one day, and after pointing out that, anyway, -for the sake of my health the five-day-a-week grind was -too much of a strain to be continued, he asked, “But how -about once a week at a good hour with a sponsor?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>I hesitated. The columnists had broken the story of -my demise at WBKB. Another station had shown interest -and we had had preliminary talks. But the fact was, -I couldn’t have asked for better treatment than WBKB -had given me. Nobody ever told me what to do or how -to slant my program. The crew on the set could not have -been more helpful. I felt at home there. And while Hope -had at first been concerned about the possibility of our -lives being wrecked by the awful demands television exacted, -she was now beginning to worry about the people -<span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>who wrote in, telling about the needs that my show somehow -ministered to. When Red sold the show on a weekly -basis to Magikist, a leading rug cleaning establishment, -there was really no doubt about my decision. When I met -Mr. Gage, the president of the corporation, he said, “If my -ten year old daughter likes you and my wife likes you, -that’s enough for me. I’m sure everybody will like you. -And we’ll try very hard to help you, too.” If you can just -get that kind of sponsor, things become a good deal -easier. But somehow, I do not think the woods are full of -them.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Quinlan’s interest in conveying through television some -of the excitement of the world of books and ideas also resulted -in an interesting experimental program called -“Sounding Board,” in which I was invited to moderate a -panel of literary Chicagoans in a monthly two-hour late-evening -discussion on arts and letters. Our regular panel -consisted of Augie Spectorsky, editor of <i>Playboy Magazine</i>; -Van Allen Bradley, literary editor of the <i>Daily -News</i>; Fannie Butcher, literary editor of the Chicago <i>Tribune</i>; -Hoke Norris, literary editor of the Chicago <i>Sun-Times</i>; -Paul Carroll, then editor of the experimental -literary magazine, <i>Big Table</i>; Hugh Duncan, author, and -Dr. Daniel Boorstin, professor of American history at the -University of Chicago. They were fine discussions and we -kept them up for six months, but nobody would pick up -the tab.</p> - -<p class='c015'>My approach to television performance, being untutored, -is probably quite unorthodox. I do not work from -notes. In preparation, I first read the book, then think -<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>about it, seeking connective links and related meanings. -In the actual review of the book, I quite often stray into -asides that assume greater importance than the review itself.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I never say to myself: this is the theme, this is the middle, -this the end. I say: get into the heart of the book and -let your mind distill it, and, as often happens, enlightening -relationships with other books and ideas may develop.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I cannot perform in a state of lassitude. Before the -cameras, I always find myself tightening up until the floor -manager signals that I’m ON. For a moment, I am all -tenseness, realizing that people are watching me, but in a -few minutes I have forgotten this and am thinking about -nothing but the book and the ideas I am talking about. -Now I am carried by the mood and direction of thought. -If I want to stand, I stand; if I want to sit, I sit; if I want -to grimace, I grimace. Nothing is rehearsed or calculated -in advance. All I can do is unfold a train of thought -springing from the study that has preceded performance, -and the toll is heavy. Sometimes after the show, I can -barely straighten up, or I may be utterly dejected over -my inability to say all I should have said. Then I leave the -studio, moody and silent.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I never talk to anyone before a show except my director. -He understands me and knows how easily I’m thrown. -It can be a slight movement from the boom man or a variation -in the countdown signal from the floor manager, -something unexpected in the action of a camera man or a -slight noise somewhere in the studio, and I react as though -someone threw a glass of water in my face. Then I am off -the track, floundering like a ship without a rudder. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>Sometimes I can right myself before the show is ended, sometimes -not. Hence the frequent depression, for I feel that -every show must be the best show possible, that “off” days -are not permitted, and that I can never indulge myself in -the attitude of, “Oh well, better one next time.” When -people are watching and listening, you must perform, and -perform your best.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Often my grammar goes haywire. I know better, but I -can become helpless against the monster known as time. -I have to fight time. I cannot hesitate or make erasures. -So I plunge on, hoping that some one significant thought -may emerge clearly—some thought perhaps as vital as -that which animates the pages of <i>The Phenomena of Man</i>, -calling on us to recognize the eternal core of faith and -courage: Courage to rebel and faith in the realization of -our own being. Courage that takes the self seriously; faith -that is grounded in activity.</p> - -<p class='c015'>I hesitate to make any predictions about the future of -television, as a means of communication or as a business. -As a business, it must be run for profit. The argument is -not about this point, but about the level of operation from -which such profit shall be sought. From personal experience, -I can say that TV does not have to constitute a blow -to life itself. Perhaps many of us are “mindless in motion” -and now sit “mindlessly motionless” in front of our TV -sets. But I take heart in the certain knowledge that many -men and women are not so much concerned with the -camera eye as they are in finding a way back to the inward -eye.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span> - <h3 class='c005'><span class='xxlarge'>12</span><br>Life in the Theatre</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c013'>There are even odder ways of life than sitting alone -behind a desk in a little room lined with books waiting -for someone to come in and talk with you, or delivering -sermons on literature to the beady red eyes of a television -camera. One of them is the theatre.</p> - -<p class='c014'>You may recall the scene in Kafka’s <i>The Trial</i> in which -K meets the Court Painter and goes to this innocuous -madman’s room, ostensibly to learn more about the Judge -who is to sit at the trial. The room is so tiny, K has to -stand on the bed while the Painter pulls picture after picture -from beneath this lone article of furniture, blows the -dust off them into K’s face, and sells several to him. Although -the reader recognizes from the beginning that it is -all a tissue of lies and deception, K leaves feeling satisfied -that at last he has someone on his side who will put in -a “right” word for him. It is evident to what ends K will -now go to bribe, cheat, blackmail, be made a total fool of, -in the hope of getting someone to intervene in his fate. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>In addition to its comment upon a culture that would -rather surrender identity than face up to its guilt, the -scene is terribly funny, as well as terribly humiliating.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It is this scene that always comes to mind when I think -of the nightmare of nonsense I lived through in the course -of three weeks in the theatre. It happened one summer -a few years ago when Hope and I had come down from -Bark Point to check on the shop. I was answering a pile of -letters when the phone rang. It was a man I had met sometime -before who turned out to be business manager of a -summer stock theatre operating in a suburb northwest of -Chicago. He wondered if I would like to play a lead opposite -Linda Darnell in the Kaufmann and Hart comedy, -<i>The Royal Family</i>. The role was that of the theatrical -agent, Oscar Wolfe, who theoretically functioned as a sane -balance to a family of zany, childish, totally mischievous -grown-ups (roughly modeled on the Barrymore clan).</p> - -<p class='c014'>Hope, who had grown up in Westchester society, admitted -that when she was a girl attending summer theatre -it had always been her secret wish to be a part of it. She -thought it might be good fun, even though I had never -acted in my life. So the business manager came over and -I signed the contract, calling for a week of rehearsal and -two weeks of performance.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Summer theatre around Chicago cannot be classified as -an amateur undertaking, although part of its economics is -based on utilizing large numbers of young people who -want the “training” and generally avoiding the high costs -involved in regular theatrical production. But top stars -and personalities are booked, the shows are promoted to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>the public as professional offerings and are reviewed as -such by the theatrical critics, and the whole enterprise is -regarded as essential to the vitality of a “living theatre.” -The outfit I signed up with was an established enterprise -and, as a matter of fact, is still going. I was not entirely -confident that I could deliver, but I had no doubt that I -was associating myself with people who could.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The theatre itself was not a refashioned barn or circus -tent set-up, but an actual theatre building, restored from -previous incarnations as a movie and vaudeville house. I -arrived on a lovely August morning but inside the theatre -was in total darkness except for some lights on the stage. I -made my way timidly down front where a number of people -were sitting. Several nodded to me, and I nodded -back. Presently a tall man got up on the stage and announced -that he was going to direct the play. He said, -however, that Miss Darnell had not yet arrived and, also, -that there were not enough scripts to go around. We -would begin with those who had their parts.</p> - -<p class='c014'>For the next three days, I sat in the darkness from nine -in the morning until five in the afternoon. No one asked -me to read, no one asked me to rehearse, practically no -one talked to me at all. I managed a few words with Miss -Darnell, who was gracious and charming, but I was beginning -to wonder when I would be asked to act. Hope had -been working with me on my lines, but it is one thing to -know lines sitting down and quite another to remember -them while trying to act and give them meaning before -an audience.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I began to suspect that something was haywire. A -friend who taught drama at a nearby college and often -<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>took character roles in stock confirmed my fears by assuring -me that this play would never get off the ground. “It -will never open,” he said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>We were to open on a Monday. It was already Friday -and I had been on stage exactly once and nobody yet -knew his part—I least of all. In addition to my fears, I -was beginning to feel slighted. I wondered what I was -doing in this dark, dank place, and what the rest thought -they were doing, including the innumerable young men -and women between sixteen and twenty years of age who -were ostensibly developing their knowledge of the theatre -through odd jobs such as wardrobe manager, program -manager, etc. There didn’t seem much to manage and I -wasn’t sure it was really a very healthy environment. By -this time, a fair number of the cast had taken to screaming, -which is something I am not used to among grown-ups -for any extended period. I also had my doubts about -a young man who spent most of his offstage moments -sweet-talking a bulldog. I wondered if acting necessarily -precluded any kind of emotional responsibility.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Saturday night the play preceding us closed. We rehearsed -all that night. Sunday the theatre would be dark, -and Monday <i>The Royal Family</i> was to go on. The Saturday -night rehearsal was initially delayed because one of -the principals could not be found. Finally he was located, -dead drunk, in a local tavern. It was now almost one a.m. -and not even a walk-through with script in hand had yet -been attempted. Instead the company was engaged in a -welter of screeching, shouting, confusion, and recriminations. -This was sheer, silly nonsense I decided, and went -<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>to see the business manager. I told him I’d be pleased to -quit and offered to pay double my salary to any experienced -actor he could get to replace me. I was at once -threatened with a lawsuit.</p> - -<p class='c014'>At two in the morning, everyone was called on stage by -the director, who made a little speech saying that he was -just no longer able to direct the play, he couldn’t pull it -together! At this, Miss Darnell walked off the stage, saying, -“This play will not open on Monday or Tuesday or -ever, unless something is done immediately.” After all, -she had a reputation to uphold.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Thereupon, the director returned with a further announcement. -It so happened, he said, that a brilliantly -gifted young New York director was “visiting here between -important plays” and he had consented to pull the -play together for us! Our gift of Providence then stepped -forward and we began to rehearse.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When my cue came and I offered my lines, the new -director said: “The Oscar Wolfe part is really just an afterthought. -The show will play just as well without the Wolfe -character appearing at all.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Fine,” I said, but pandemonium had already broken -loose as the former director and some of the actors took issue -with this new twist. We were already missing one -actor and now this new director wanted to sack me. Well, -I had asked for it, but Miss Darnell and the others persuaded -me to stick with it. The rehearsal continued.</p> - -<p class='c014'>At five a.m. a halt was called and the treasurer of the -theatre asked to say a few words. Under Equity rules, he -reminded us, we were entitled to overtime for extra -<span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>rehearsal. He asked us to waive this for the sake of the play. -I waited silently to see what the general reaction would -be. It didn’t take long to find out: Nothing doing, play or -no play! I went along with them on that. What I couldn’t -understand was why they put up with all they did: the -filthy little cubicles that served as dressing rooms, the rats -and cockroaches that scudded across the floor, the lack of -any backstage source of drinking water—the whole atmosphere -seemed deliberately designed to make an actor’s -life completely insupportable. And now the management -was sulking because the actors didn’t have enough -“love for the theatre” to forgo their pay for overtime.</p> - -<p class='c014'>At six a.m. it was decided that rehearsal would resume -at one o’clock in the afternoon. As we were about to leave, -too tired to care any longer about anything, the director -came up and said he was sure I must have misunderstood -him. He would indeed be sorry if I left the show or if he -had hurt my feelings. What he had really meant to <a id='corr174.19'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='say'>say was</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_174.19'>say was</a></span> -that the Oscar Wolfe part lends credence to the movement -and meaning of the play. I was glad to leave it at that.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The following afternoon, before evening rehearsals, -Hope and I stopped at a drugstore a few steps from -the theatre. There we found Miss Darnell sitting in a -booth sipping a coke. She motioned us over.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“The play won’t open Monday,” she said. “I’ve made -my decision.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>We agreed wholeheartedly.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“But have you heard the latest?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“No,” we said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“The play that follows us in is falling apart, too. An -<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span><a id='corr175.1'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='old time'>old-time</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_175.1'>old-time</a></span> actor in it, pretty well known for his paranoia, -slugged a young actress for a remark she made and someone -else jumped in and put him in the hospital.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“What’s next with our show?” I said. “Has a replacement -been found for our drunken friend?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Yes. He’s busy now rehearsing his lines.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“This is a world such as I’ve never been in,” I said. “I’ve -never seen anything like it.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Neither have I. Not like this one,” said Linda Darnell.</p> - -<p class='c014'>On stage, we again worked all night. It was a mess. -The director was in a rage. He scowled, threatened, exhorted. -Everybody was going to pieces. No one talked -to anyone.</p> - -<p class='c014'>On Monday morning, we started at ten, planning to -rehearse up to curtain time. But at five in the afternoon, -Miss Darnell told the management she would not appear, -and under her contract they could do nothing but accept -her decision. We went back to work that night and rehearsed -until five in the morning.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Came Tuesday afternoon and we were back again in -our black hole of Calcutta. By now we were all more -than a little hysterical and the language would have been -coarse for a smoker party. Some of the players were so -exhausted they slept standing up. But now the play was -finally getting under way. Zero hour was approaching. -The curtain went up and the show began.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Opening night was incredible. In scene after scene, -lines were dropped, cues forgotten, and ad libs interjected -to a point that it was almost impossible to stay in character. -The actress who claimed she had played her part as -<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>an ancient dowager for the last twenty years (“Everywhere—I -even played it in Australia”) forgot her lines -and was utterly beside herself. She said never had she -been subjected to such humiliation. One actor tripped -over her long morning coat and fell on his face. A bit of a -nut anyway, he got up gracefully, muttered some inanities, -and tickled the old dowager under the chin. She reared -back, nostrils flaring. All this time, I was sitting at a piano -observing the scene, feeling like a somnambulist.</p> - -<p class='c014'>But the play went on, and although it certainly improved -during its run, the relations of the cast did not. -Every evening we came in, put on our make-up, and -dressed for our parts without saying a word. One night I -lost a shirt. Another night an actress had her purse stolen. -On another occasion a fist fight broke out between an actor -and an actress. Backstage life went on either in utter silence -or in bursts of yelling, screaming, and hair-pulling. -The atmosphere was thick with hostility. But on stage it -was as though nothing outside the world of the play had -ever happened, unless you were close enough to hear -names still being called under the breath. It was crazy.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Many of us in the cast were asked to appear on television -interviews to promote the show. A good friend of -mine, Marty Faye, who has had one of the longest continuous -runs on Chicago TV, asked me to appear on his -late evening broadcast. Since the gossip columnists in the -city were already having a field day over the strife at this -well-known summer playhouse, I told Marty (and his -viewing audience) my reaction to the affair and to what -I had seen of the theatre in general. I had no idea I was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>exploding such a bombshell. From right and left, I was -attacked by everyone (including the lady who had had -such a horrible experience playing the dowager) as a -traitor to the theatre and its great traditions. By everyone, -that is, except Miss Darnell and her leading man, who -agreed that something might be done for actors if the -public knew of the conditions under which they so often -work and of the wretched, tragic life they so frequently -have to lead. What a terrible waste this amounts to! No -wonder you have to be virtually insane to pursue a career -in the theatre!</p> - -<p class='c014'>Herb Lyons, the <i>Tribune</i> columnist, couldn’t stop -laughing over lunch the day I told him my experiences. -Irv Kupcinet, the <i>Sun-Times</i> columnist, however, whose -talented daughter was among our struggling players, -failed to see any humor in the situation. But the real payoff -came when checks were distributed after the first week -of our engagement. For the week of rehearsals, I had received -the munificent sum of thirty-five dollars, but my -salary for actual performance was to be two hundred -and fifty dollars per week. My check for the first week’s -work was $18.53! What happened to the rest of the -money? Well, in the first place, I had to join the union and -pay six months dues. Then I had to pay the full price for -any seats I reserved for friends or relatives and even for a -seat for Hope. Then I paid for the daily pressing of my -suit and the laundering of my shirts and even a hidden fee -for the use of the dressing room. Finally, there was the -usual social security and withholding tax deduction.</p> - -<p class='c014'>But the whole Kafka nightmare was well worth it. In -<span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>spite of acquiring at least one enemy for life and no monetary -profit at all, I gained some friends who take the theatre -seriously and in a treacherous business, are determinedly -making headway. In addition, Linda Darnell, a -person of great sweetness, has become a cherished acquaintance. -It is not often one comes out of a nightmare -so well.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span> - <h3 class='c005'><span class='xxlarge'>13</span><br>Writing and Publishing</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c013'>I knew she was crazy the moment she entered the -room. It was a miserable November day, snowing and -blowing, when a woman with a round face, rosy from the -bitter cold, wearing a long raincoat and a hat trimmed -with big bright cherries burst into the old Seven Stairs -and almost ran me into the fireplace.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Are you Mr. Brent?” she cried. She was fat and dumpy -and she now took a deep breath and stood on tiptoe, running -the tip of her tongue across her lips.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I am,” I said, backing away behind the desk.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Oh, Mr. Brent, a friend of yours sent me. I teach her -children at the Lab school, and she thinks you’re a wonderful -man. And now, seeing you, I think so, too!” She -breathed deeply again. “I have a wonderful book, a divine -book, that will change everything ever written for -children. You must be the first to see it. I’ve brought it -along.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>With this, she removed the long raincoat and began -<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>peeling off one sweater after another. I remained behind -the desk watching the sweaters pile up and thinking, if -she attacks me I’ll make a break for the stairs and yell for -help.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Finally she started to undo a safety pin at one shoulder, -then at the other, and then she unbuttoned a belt -about her fat waist. These apparently related to some -kind of suspension system beneath her dress, for she now -pulled forth, with the air of a lunatic conjurer, a package -wrapped in silk which she deposited on my desk and began -to unwrap ever so delicately. She did have lovely -long fingers.</p> - -<p class='c014'>As the unwrapping proceeded, her mood changed -from hysterical exuberance to one of command. “Take -this cover and hold it,” she directed, her lower lip thrust -out aggressively. I held the cover while she backed off -and unfolded the book, her eyes fixed upon me with a -wicked gleam.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“This book shows something no other book has ever -dared to do,” she said. “It shows the true Christmas Spirit. -Look carefully and you’ll see the new twist. Instead of -showing Santa Claus coming down the chimney, I have -shown Santa coming <i>up</i> the chimney! Furthermore I’m -prepared to make you my agent. I’ll work with you day -and night. Are you married? No? I thought not. My dear -boy, we’ll make ecstasy together and be rich!”</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was a delicate situation. I told her I did not think -she should let the manuscript out of her hands, but in the -meantime I would think of some publisher who might be -interested in a new twist about Santa Claus.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>Without another word, she wrapped up the book, -pinned it back to her stomach, strapped the belt about -her, piled one sweater on after the other, put on her hat -and raincoat, and backed away like a retreating animal -until she hit the door. Then, still staring at me, she slowly -turned the knob, flung open the door, and fled into the -cold November morning. Her poor soul haunted me for -days.</p> - -<p class='c013'>Long before I was known to anyone else, I began to be -sought out by people who wanted to write, or had written -and wanted to publish, or had even gone to the futile expense -of private publication. There was an October night -when I was nearly frightened out of my wits, while sitting -before the fire at the Seven Stairs, by the sudden appearance -of a tall young man with a black hat pulled far down -over one eye and a nervous tenseness that warned me immediately -of a stick-up. His opening remark, “You’re open -rather late,” didn’t help any, either.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I remained uneasy while he looked around. Finally he -bought two records and a volume of poetry, but he seemed -loath to leave. He had a rather military bearing and -handsome, regular features. For some reason, it struck -me that he might have been a submarine captain. Presently -he began talking about poetry and told me he had -written a volume that was privately printed. A few days -later he brought in a copy. The verse was much in the vein -of Benton’s <i>This Is My Beloved</i>. He wondered if I would -stock a dozen of them on a consignment basis. I agreed. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>Why not? When he left, he said cryptically, “You’re the -only friend I have.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Months passed during which I heard nothing from him. -Then one evening I saw a newspaper picture of my friend -aboard a fine looking schooner tied up at the mouth of the -Chicago River. He was sailing to the South Seas in it.</p> - -<p class='c014'>He came in a few days later to say goodbye. Of course -I had failed to sell any of the poetry, so he suggested I -keep the books until he returned from his voyage. As we -shook hands, he was still tense and jumpy. A few months -later he was dead, shot by a girl he had taken along. I had -just recovered from reading the sensational press accounts -of the tragedy when I received a phone call from the late -poet’s uncle, who said, “I know about your friendship with -Jack and would appreciate it if you would give the reporters -an interview as we absolutely refuse to do so ourselves.” -Before I knew it, I was being quoted in the papers -about a man I had scarcely known and a book I couldn’t -sell. The girl in the case got some engagements as an -exotic dancer after her release from a Cuban jail, but the -affair did next to nothing for the book. Not even a murder -scandal will sell poetry.</p> - -<p class='c014'>To everyone who brings me his writing, I protest that I -am not an agent. But often it is hard to turn them away. -There was the little gnarled old man with a few straggly -long grey hairs for a beard who came in clutching a tired, -worn briefcase. His story of persecution and cruel rejection -was too much for me. “Let me see your book,” I said. -The soiled, yellow pages were brought out of the -case, along with half a sandwich wrapped in Kleenex, and -deposited gently on my desk. The manuscript was in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>longhand. It purported to tell the saga of man’s continual -search for personal freedom.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“How long have you been writing this book?” I said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“All my life,” he replied. He had once been a history -professor he assured me.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“And what do you do now?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>A kind of cackle came out of him. “I am a presser of -pants.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“And how did you come to bring this to me?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“I watch you on television every morning.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Well,” I said, “I’m no publisher, but leave it with me. -I’ll try reading it over the weekend. When you come back -for it, maybe I can tell you what to do next.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Or there was the woman who had written inspirational -poetry since she was ten. She had paid to have one volume -of verse printed, and now she had another. “This volume -is for my mother,” she said. “She is very sick. If I could -get it published, I think it would help her. But I don’t -have the money to pay for it.” And her voice trailed away -into other worlds. She worked nights at a large office -building. During the day, when she wasn’t caring for her -sick mother, she wrote poetry.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“May I see it, please?” And now I was stuck. “Leave -it with me. I’ll see what I can do.” Of course I could do -nothing. But how could I tell this fragile, helpless creature -that even great poetry is unlikely to sell two thousand -copies? I recalled Dr. Frieda Fromm-Reichmann -once saying to me: “A good analyst must always have a -rescue fantasy to offer.” But I am not an analyst, rabbi, -priest, or even a Miss Lonelyhearts.</p> - -<p class='c014'>A young man, hate and rebellion written terribly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>across his face, accosted me unannounced and declared: -“I’ve watched you on TV. You sound like a right -guy. Here’s my book. Find me a publisher. Everybody’s -a crook these days, but maybe you’re not. Maybe you believe -what you say. Well, here’s your chance to prove it!” -Then he rushed out, leaving the manuscript behind and -me yelling after him, “Hey, wait a minute!” But he was -gone.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It is not merely the poor and downtrodden or the hopeless -nuts who seek fulfillment through publication. “If -you can get my wife’s book published, I’ll give you ten -thousand dollars,” a wealthy customer told me. Another -said, “Get this book published for me and I’ll buy five -thousand copies!” Another, who had certainly made his -mark in business told me, “If I can get published, all my -life will not have been lived in vain.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Touching and even terrifying as these thwarted impulses -toward expression may be, virtually every example -turns out to be deficient in two ways:</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt>1.</dt> - <dd>It is badly written. - </dd> - <dt>2.</dt> - <dd>Its philosophic content is borrowed instead of being distilled from the writer’s own - experience. - </dd> - </dl> - -<p class='c014'>The second error is also a glaring defect in the work -of many practicing and commercially successful novelists. -For example: the writer who, in drawing a neurotic character, -simply reproduces the appropriate behavior patterns -as described in psychoanalytic literature. The result -may be letter perfect as to accuracy and tailor-made -to fit the requirements of the situation, but the final product -is nothing but an empty shell.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>In any event, a real writer is not just someone with a -fierce urge or dominating fantasy about self-expression. -He may well have a demon that drives him or he may find -a way to knowledge out of the depths of personal frustration. -But before all else, he is someone who has a feeling -for the craft of handling the written word and the patience -to try to discipline himself in this craft. The main thing -to remember about a writer is that he makes it his business -to put words together on a sheet of paper.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Beyond this, he may be any sort of person, of any physique, -of any age, alcoholic or not, paranoid or not, cruel -or not, drug addicted or not, horrible to women and children -or not, teach Sunday School or not, anything you -please. He can even engage in any vocation or profession, -as long as he keeps going back to his desk and putting -words together. He can be wealthy or have no money at -all, and his personal life can be perfectly average and uneventful -or utterly unbelievable. Just as long as he really -works at words.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The level of his intention and his art may vary from -writing for the newspapers to plumbing the depths of -experience or pursuing some ultimate vision, but within -the range he undertakes, the discipline of words calls -also for the discipline of values, intelligence, emotion, -perception. Writers who are serious about their business -know these things, and the difficulties they present, too -well to have to talk about them. In all my conversations -with writers, I can recall few instances in which anybody -ever talked directly about the art of writing.</p> - -<p class='c014'>In the case of professional writers, I have acted more -often as a catalyst than as a volunteer agent. For example, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>I abused as well as prodded Paul Molloy, the prize-winning -columnist of the <i>Chicago Sun-Times</i>, until he turned -his hand to a book. The simplicity and sincerity of his style -has an undoubted appeal, as the <a id='corr186.4'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='sucess'>success</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_186.4'>success</a></span> of the book, <i>And -Then There Were Eight</i>, has proved. I am sure he would -have written it anyway, ultimately, but even a fine talent -can use encouragement.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I have also found it possible to help another type of -writer—the expert in a special field who is perfectly qualified -to write a type of book that is greatly needed. During -the period when my psychiatric book speciality was -at its peak, I became aware of the need for a single giant -book on the whole story of psychiatry. Dr. Franz Alexander, -then Director of the Chicago Institute for Psychoanalysis, -was the obvious choice for such a monumental -undertaking. No other great authority was so widely respected -outside his particular field—not only among -those in other “schools” of psychiatric thought, but among -workers and scholars in every area concerned with the -human psyche.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Dr. Alexander was the very first student at the Institute -of Psychoanalysis founded by Freud in Vienna. I loved -to listen to Dr. Alexander reminisce about his relationships -with Freud and the original Seven and especially -admired his view of the relationship of modern psychoanalysis -to Spinoza’s philosophy of the emotions. He was -one of the few men I had encountered in this field who -had a thorough background in philosophy. When I -broached the idea of a monumental compendium, embracing -the total field of psychiatry and psychoanalysis, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>historically and technically, he at first hesitated, then -finally agreed—if the right publisher could be interested -and if a fairly large advance could be obtained to help -with the extensive research that would be involved.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Shortly thereafter, while on a trip to New York, I -had lunch with Michael Bessie of Harper and Brothers -and explained the idea to him. He was very much taken -with it, and within a few weeks all of the details were -worked out to Dr. Alexander’s satisfaction. The work is -still in progress, Dr. Alexander having retired to California -to devote the greater part of his time to its completion.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Other books which I also managed to place for Chicago -analysts were Irene Josslyn’s <i>The Happy Child</i> and -George Mohr’s <i>Stormy Decade, Adolescence</i>.</p> - -<p class='c014'>But what of the young man or woman who has determined -to devote himself to the difficult craft of writing, -who has beaten out a book to his best ability, and is looking -for a publisher? What do you do?</p> - -<p class='c014'>Well, of course, there is nothing to prevent you from -bundling up your manuscript and mailing it to various -publishers. Experience shows, however, that very few -manuscripts submitted “cold” or, in the trade phrase, “over -the transom” (obviously the mailman can’t stick a manuscript -through the letter slot), ever see the light of day. -This doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t carefully consider -the piece before attaching a rejection slip to it. I should -say, however, that something of a very special literary -quality—not the self-styled “advance guard” but the -truly different, which has no audience ready-made and -hence must create its own, the kind of literature which you -<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>just possibly might write (and which I think certainly is -being written) and that could change the world through -its extension of our resources of feeling and expression—does -not stand too strong a chance of passing through the -literate but patterned screening of publishers’ manuscript -readers. Furthermore, since each publishing house has a -character all its own, the likelihood of any one manuscript -ending up in the right place is a numbers game that can -be quite disheartening to play.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Perhaps the best advice that can be given to the determined -author is: Get a good agent. This is not necessarily -easy and there are pitfalls, including sharks who prey -upon the innocent for their own financial gain. A manuscript -that comes into the publisher’s office “cold” stands -a better chance of receiving serious consideration than -one sent under the auspices of a dubious agent. Nevertheless, -a manuscript by an unknown writer usually gets -a quicker reading if it comes through a recognized agent.<a id='r2'></a><a href='#f2' class='c016'><sup>[2]</sup></a></p> - -<p class='c014'>With or without the help of an agent, the task is to try -to place the book with some publisher. This task has become -increasingly difficult unless the book is, by its very -nature, a safe bet to sell. Nowadays the best bets are the -so-called “non-books”—books specifically designed for -selling, such as collections of humorous pictures and captions -or volumes whose authors are not only well known in -the entertainment world, but also carry a heavy clot with -TV audiences: The Jack Paar Story, The Zsa Zsa Gabor -Story, The Maurice Chevalier Story, The Harpo Marx -<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>Story—they may not all have exactly the same name -and they may be written in greater or lesser part by relatively -accomplished hacks, they may range from the fascinating -to the disgusting in content, but they all exist for -the same reason: there is a built-in audience that will buy -them. Frankly, if Books and Brent had ever achieved network -status, I could have done the same thing.</p> - -<p class='c014'>The problem is not that publishers will buy a sure -thing. Of course they will and, within reason, why -shouldn’t they? The problem is that less and less is being -published today that stands a chance of belonging in the -realm of permanent literature. It is easier to get a book -like this published, <i>about</i> books and writers (although -not too popular a subject and therefore a fairly adventurous -publishing undertaking), than it is to get the hard-wrought, -significant works of some of the writers I have -mentioned into print. Actually, most of the material that -is selected for publication today is chosen precisely <i>because</i> -it is temporary in value and appeal. Publishing, of -course, is a difficult business and every book, in a sense, is -a long shot, more likely to fail than to succeed in turning a -profit. Most publishing houses have been built on the -proposition that the successes must help subsidize the -failures, but that this is the only way that the new and -unknown talent, which will create the future of literature, -can be developed. Publishing has never been like most -manufacturing industries, where you can survey a new -line before you try it, and drop it if it doesn’t pay its way. -In spite of all the tons of junk printed since Gutenberg, -the glory and prestige of publishing is linked not with -<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>numbers of copies sold but numbers of enduring works -produced. Virtually no one remembers the best sellers -of 1900 or even 1950. But the great editors and publishers -who nurtured, say, the talents of the 1920’s have become -part of literary history. A Maxwell Perkins couldn’t -exist in an industry that didn’t care what it was doing or -that wouldn’t take its chances.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Taking a chance seems to be a custom that is going -out of fashion—especially taking a chance on something -you believe in. It is strange that this should be so, especially -in business and industry, where the tax laws tend -to encourage judicious failure (“product research,” etc.) -in any enterprise strong enough to be in the fifty-two percent -bracket. Perhaps corporate structure is one of the -factors that tend to close our horizons. A free individual -can keep taking his chances until the world catches up -with him. But the officer of a corporation who is responsible -for justifying his actions to the board (and the board -to the banks and the stockholders) does not have much -leeway.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Both good books and bad books sell (and many books, -both good and bad, fail to sell at all). A good book is, -very simply, a revealing book. A bad book is bad because -it is dull. Its author is obviously lying, not necessarily -by purveying misinformation, but because he lards -his work with any information that falls to hand—a sort -of narrative treatment of the encyclopedia. A good book -stirs your soul. You find yourself lost, not in an imaginary -world (like the encyclopedia), but in a world where -everything is understood. Readers and editors alike, no -matter how debilitated, can detect this difference.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>So, even, can the reviewers—largely a group of underpaid -journalists and college professors who have a -right, if any one does, to have become weary of letters. -A writer friend of mine recently told of waiting at an airport -for a plane that was late. He bought all three of the -literary magazines obtainable from the newsstand and -settled down to read. Every book review seemed to him -written by someone who hated literature. He became -utterly disgusted with both the reviews and the reviewers.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Considering the volume of publishing, how can it be so -difficult to get good new books? There are not enough -really significant titles coming out for me or anyone else -to make a decent living selling them (I gave up trying -with the Seven Stairs). When I talked with Mr. Simon, -he assured me that Simon and Schuster and the book industry -as a whole were booming with the mergers and -the mushrooming educational market, but that the big -problem was finding good writers and good books. I wonder -if they are going about it properly. Somehow the -prize contests and other subsidies never seem to bring -genuine individual talent to the fore, and while everybody -claims to be looking for something fresh, what gets bought -looks suspiciously like the same old package.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Publishing has so often been (and in many cases, still -is) a shoestring industry, that one gets a momentary lift -from seeing it listed today on the board on Wall Street. -But it is an open question whether the investors are supplying -risk money for a cultural renaissance or buying into -a sure thing: the increasing distribution of synthetic culture -through textbooks and the propagation of standard -<span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>classics and encyclopedias at cut-rate prices through the -supermarkets.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Anyone who has given his heart and soul to literature -and the arts is likely to regard everyone who pulls the -financial strings in the communications world as a monster. -But the commercial outlook on something like the retail -book trade is so dispiriting that the wonder is anybody -pays any attention to it whatever or publishes any books -at all whose distribution depends upon such channels. -In Chicago, for example, a center of about six million people, -there are approximately five major bookstores (excluding -religious and school book suppliers). Compared -to this, I am told of a village in Finland of six thousand -people where there are three bookstores doing a fine business! -Now in my own shop I sell books, to be sure, but I -also sell greeting cards, art objects manufactured by or -for the Metropolitan Museum, paperbacks, records, and, -at Christmas time, wrappings, ribbons, stickers, and miniature -Santa Clauses. I still got into trouble one day when -a woman came in and couldn’t get a pack of pinochle -cards. She thought I had a lot of nerve advertising books -and not selling playing cards. Actually, “Bookstore” in -America has come to mean a kind of minor supplier of -paper goods and notions—and that is exactly what the -great number of “Book Dealers—Retail” listed in the -Chicago Redbook in fact are.</p> - -<p class='c014'>But you <i>can</i> buy a book in Chicago. Try it, however, -in most of the cities across this vast country up to, say, -100,000 population. You’ll be lucky to find a hardback -copy of anything except the current best sellers. And in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>spite of the wonders of drug store paperbacks, a culture -can’t live and grow on reprints.</p> - -<p class='c014'>So let’s face it. In a nation of 185 million people, some -of whom are reasonably literate, a new book that sells ten -to twenty thousand copies is regarded as pretty hot stuff. -In an age of the mass market, this isn’t hot enough to light -a candle.</p> - -<p class='c014'>What to do about it? Well, in the first place, let’s not -be complacent about what’s happening to American culture, -to the American psyche. It isn’t just the money-grubbing, -the success-seeking; grubbing and striving, -more or less, are a part of living. It is the emptiness, the -meaninglessness. Nobody can get along without an interior -life. The soul must be fed, or something ugly and -anti-human fills the void. Spiritual nourishment is not a -frill, apart from everyday necessity. The everyday and -the ultimate expression of man do not exist apart. Synge -remarked: “When men lose their poetic feeling for ordinary -life and cannot write poetry of ordinary things, -their exalted poetry is likely to lose its strength of exaltation, -in the way men cease to build beautiful churches -when they have lost happiness in building shops.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>In the modern world, good reading offers one of the -few means of getting back to one’s self, of refreshing the -spirit, of relating to the inward life of man. Through -reading you can get acquainted all over again with yourself. -You can stand being alone. You will look forward -again to tomorrow.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Anything that stands in the way of this hope for renewal -is an affront to man and a judgment on our times.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>If the publishing industry has found a helpful new -source of income through the present mania for education, -fine. But a few extra years of education aren’t going -to change anybody’s life. If we wait for a popular -growth in “cultural maturity” to justify making more -widely available the sustenance men need, it will come -too late. There must be ways of cutting through the -jungles of mass markets and mass media to reach, in a way -that has not previously been possible, the much smaller but -more significant audience of the consciously hungry. For -as long as there are human souls still alive and sentient, -there can be good books, good writers, even booksellers -selling books again, paying their bills, earning a living.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Meantime, if you must be a writer, write seriously and -well. Never pay for publication of your own book. Take -your chances. If you succeed, fine. If not, then you must -either persist in trying, time after time, or give up. Perhaps -the present custodians of culture have their minds -on other matters and do not wish to hear what you have -to say. So be it. You will not be the first.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span> - <h3 class='c005'><span class='xxlarge'>14</span><br>Books and Brent</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c013'>When I began to read, I fell in love with such a consuming -passion that I became a threat to everyone who -knew me. Whatever I was reading, I became: I was the -character, Hamlet or Lear; I was the author, Shelley or -Stendhal. When I was seized by sudden quirks, jerks, -and strange gestures, it was not because I was a nervous -child—I was being some character.</p> - -<p class='c014'>One morning when I awoke, I looked into the mirror -and discovered that one part of my head seemed bigger -than the other. I ate my breakfast in silence with my -three sisters gathered about the table watching me. When -I suddenly looked up, I thought I saw them exchanging -meaningful glances.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Do you see something strange about me?” I asked.</p> - -<p class='c014'>They shook their heads and suppressed a giggle.</p> - -<p class='c014'>My mother, washing dishes at the sink, stopped and -looked at me, too.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Do you see anything unusual about me?” I said. She -didn’t.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>I got up and, standing in the middle of the floor, bent -my head to one side and said, “Look, my head is swelling!”</p> - -<p class='c014'>My sisters laughed wildly, while my mother cried, -“What are we going to do with this silly boy? What are -we going to do?”</p> - -<p class='c014'>My knowledge, they assured me, was coming out of my -head. And I told them this was not funny at all.</p> - -<p class='c014'>When I went back to the mirror, I liked my face much -better. The forehead was showing some wrinkles. Lines -were appearing at the mouth. The eyes seemed more in -keeping with what might be expected of a thinker or poet. -Before I had begun to read, this face certainly had appeared -more ordinary—just smooth and clean and nothing -else. Now that I had begun to peer a little into the -minds of great men, something was entering my soul that -reflected itself in my face. I was sure of it. Naturally, the -idea that filling my head with knowledge might cause it -to burst was nonsense, but I certainly was cramming in an -oddly miscellaneous assortment of facts, dates, events, -phrases, words, snatches of everything. I never read systematically. -I read everything, and I think still that it is -simply stupid to tell boys and girls to read certain books -between the ages of nine and twelve, other books between -sixteen and twenty, etc. I got lost in the paradise of books -and it wrecked me forever—destroyed any possibility of -my becoming a “successful” man, saved me from becoming -a killer in the jungle of material ambition.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I think prescribed reading is the enemy of learning, and -today it is probably the end of culture. As a boy, I -<span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>devoured all the Sax Rohmer mysteries, the Rover Boys, the -Edgar Rice Burroughs’ <i>Men of Mars</i> and the Tarzan series; -I read <i>Penrod and Sam</i>, <i>Huckleberry Finn</i>, <i>Tom Sawyer</i>—all -with equal enthusiasm. This is where it begins. -Taste can come later.</p> - -<p class='c014'>There is a certain point, once enthusiasm is engendered, -when a good teacher can open doors for you. I had such -a teacher, and later a friend, in Jesse Feldman. His enthusiasm -supported my own, and at the same time he held -the key to the wealth of possibilities that literature offers. -He was a scholar, but his real scholarship resided in his -love for people. He believed ideas could change human -hearts. He inspired me by making me wonder about everything. -He showed me that the worst sin of which I might -be capable would be to become indifferent to the human -spirit.</p> - -<p class='c014'>It was Jesse who introduced me to Jack London’s <i>Martin -Eden</i>. I was seventeen. Then <i>Les Miserables</i>, <i>Nana</i>, -and <i>Anna Karenina</i> set me off like a forest fire. There was -no stopping me. I had to read everything. I plunged into -Hardy’s <i>Return of the Native</i> with pencil in hand, underlining -and writing my thoughts in the margins. I loved to -argue with the author and the need to make notations -made it terribly important to own my own books, no matter -how long it took to save the money to buy them. It was -fun to look at books, to touch them, to think of the next -purchase.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I read Dickens until I couldn’t see straight. I read -Goethe’s <i>Faust</i> and thought secretly that the author was a -pompous ass. Years later I again read it and became -<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>fascinated with the entire Faustian legend. This is the way -it should be. You don’t have to get it the first time.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I can remember when I first read <i>The Brothers Karamazov</i> -and how it unnerved me. The book created such fierce -anxieties within me that I couldn’t finish it. I had to wait -a number of years before I could tolerate the strain it put -on my nervous system.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Later Jesse gave me my first introduction to Thomas -Mann and Jules Romain. I read Henry Hudson’s <i>Green -Mansions</i> and to this day I can’t forget Abel and Rima. I -read Dreiser’s <i>Sister Carrie</i> and loved his social criticism, -his amazing bitterness, his terrible writing. I memorized -the <i>Ode to the West Wind</i> and began my Shelley imitations, -adopting, among other things, his habit of reading -standing up. I read Galsworthy and wrote long précis -of his wonderful short stories. My reading was for myself, -my notebooks were for myself, my thoughts and ideas -were for myself.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Although I was seldom without a book at any time, the -very best time to read was on Saturday mornings. Normally -my mother baked on Friday and she had a genius -for failing to remember that something was in the oven. -So if I was lucky, there would be plenty of cookies or cake -or strudel left, slightly burned, that nobody else would -touch. I loved it. Then, too, the house was strangely still -on Saturday mornings. No one was home and I could -turn up the volume on the phonograph as loudly as I -wished and sit and listen and read and eat cake. It was -marvelous.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Sometimes a single vivid line was the reward for days -<span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>of desultory reading. I remember first coming across -Carlyle’s remark in Heroes and Hero-Worship, “The Age -of Miracles is forever here!” and how I plucked that phrase -and kept repeating it even in my darkest moments. Again, -after finishing <i>Moby Dick</i>, a book I took straight to my -heart, I began a research job on Melville and encountered -a letter written to Hawthorne that marked me -for life. I was reading at the public library, and as closing -time approached I began to race madly through the -books I had gathered, trying to find something that would -tell me what Melville was like. Suddenly my heart skipped -a beat and I knew that I had found it (child of innocence -that I was, bent on researching the whole world, ancient -and modern): “My development,” Melville wrote, -“has been all within a few years past. Until I was twenty-five, -I had no development at all. From my twenty-fifth -year I date my life. Three weeks have scarcely passed, at -any time between then and now, that I have not unfolded -within myself.”</p> - -<p class='c014'>Closing time was called and I went out into the solitary -night, walking thoughtfully home, thinking, thinking, -thinking. I didn’t want money or success or recognition. -I didn’t want a single thing from anybody. I wanted only -to be alone, to read, to think ... to unfold.</p> - -<p class='c014'>One year I’d be interested in literature, the next in philosophy, -the following in physics or chemistry or even -neurology. Everything interested me. Who cared what -I ate or how I dressed? I cared only for the words between -covers. I was safe so long as I didn’t fall in love -... this I knew from Schopenhauer. Spengler fascinated -<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>me. <i>The Decline of the West</i> was so brilliantly written, -it had a scheme ... and it was such a fraud. But -I was learning how to read and how to think through what -I was reading. I disliked Nietzsche and only later came -to see him as one who was saying in very bald terms: -Don’t sell out! Stop wasting your time predicting the -future of mankind, but become an active part in creating -it.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I had long known the Old Testament, but now I became -attracted to the New Testament and the figure of Jesus. -I memorized the Sermon on the Mount and spent sleepless -nights arguing with myself. I went wild over -Tawney’s <i>The Acquisitive Society</i> and Max Weber’s -<i>The Protestant Ethic</i> had a tremendous effect on me and -sent me back to reading Washington, Jefferson, Hamilton, -and Benjamin Franklin. I was beginning to suspect that -I was too deeply influenced by European literature and -not enough by American. Why was I drawn to Kafka and -Mann and Gide and Proust and Anatole France and -Huysmans and not to Howells and Emerson and Whitman -and Hawthorne and Melville and Thoreau? I set -myself a course of study and luckily started with Hawthorne. -Had I started with Howells, I have a strong -notion I’d have given up. But I liked Hawthorne, and -this led to Melville and here I found my God and my -America. His involuted writing was perfect for me and -this in turn led to Henry James. When James made the -remark about the gorgeous wastefulness of living, I knew -he was right. In the eyes of the world I lived in, I was -wasting my time. Many of my friends by now had good -jobs selling insurance or automobiles or were on the way -<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>to becoming successful junior executives. And I? Well, -I was reading! I always worked, to be sure, but at odd -jobs only. If I went to school during the day, then I -worked at night. If I attended night school, then I -worked during the day. But what the job was made no -difference to me.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Sometimes I did pause to ask myself where this was going -to lead. There was the day I was being interviewed -for a job at Woolworth’s and the man asked, “What do -you know?” I started to tell him what I knew about the -various schools of literature and philosophy and he -stopped me cold, saying, “You know too much about the -wrong things. We can’t hire you.” This knocked me out -for days.</p> - -<p class='c014'>What did I want to be? Did I have to become something? -Did I have to have some land of social approval? -For a time I went around in a state of near collapse. First -I decided upon medicine as a good practical profession -with a lot of good basic knowledge behind it. Then I felt -that perhaps I should be a lawyer. I was generally regarded -as a good speaker and I had an idea that criminal -lawyers were exciting people. Then I thought possibly I -ought to be an architect. But nothing fitted. Finally I -decided. I was going to teach.</p> - -<p class='c014'>To my shocked amazement, I discovered that all my -years spent at college, all my study, the range of knowledge -I had sought to embrace, meant absolutely nothing -in the eyes of the master educators. I was deficient in what -were called Education Courses. There was nothing for -me to do but to take them.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>In all my life in the classroom, I had never encountered -such a waste of time, such stupidity, such a moral outrage! -The courses were insipid and the teachers themselves -knew nothing whatever. It was either insane nonsense -or an organized racket from top to bottom: courses -on the theory of education (I had already gotten my theory -from Samuel Butler and George Meredith, neither -of whom the educators seemed to have heard of), courses -on educational psychology (something completely occult), -courses on techniques, courses on I.Q. measurements, -courses on the art of choosing a textbook. By the -time I had finished my required work in education, I -could not have been less inspired to be a teacher. I had -heard a great deal about the smug middle class and their -valueless world, and have since encountered them and it, -but I shall be happy to exhibit any group of typical specimens -of this order as examples of vibrant living and exciting -intellect compared to a meeting of “educators.” -No wonder books are dying!</p> - -<p class='c014'>In those depression days, it seemed to me that the education -world was something invented to keep some -walking zombies busy. But it turned out that the educators -got in on the ground floor of a good thing. With the -present hue and cry for education and more education, -their job is cut out for them: tests and more tests, techniques -and more techniques.</p> - -<p class='c014'>We don’t need more educators; we need more <i>teachers</i>. -And especially teachers of literature. Not teachers who -are smug in their learning and want to impose value -judgments on others. But teachers who are alive with -<span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>love and enthusiasm, whose own experience with art and -letters has made them a little less ashamed to be members -of the human race. Not teachers armed with a book list, -but with a personal addiction to reading as a never ending -source of generous delight. Not experts in testing and -guidance, but people with enough faith in youth to inspire -them to find their own way and make their own choices, -to taste the exhilaration of stumbling and bumbling on -their own amid all the wonders and ups and downs of the -human quest for understanding. We need teachers who -will stimulate, provoke, and challenge, instead of providing -crutches, short cuts, and easy directions. There is just -no point in building all those new school buildings unless -we have more Jesse Feldmans to fill them with the realization -that the aim of education is to help man become -human.</p> - -<p class='c015'>I seldom go back to where the Seven Stairs used to be. -It is hard to visualize it as it once was. The old brownstone -has a new face, the front bricked up and the door -bolted. Business is good on the Avenue, but many of the -people who come in seem tight-lipped and hurried. The -Seven Stairs is not there either.</p> - -<p class='c014'>But when we start looking up old places, it means we -have forgotten them as symbols. The Seven Stairs was an -adventure of the heart ... a personal search for the -Holy Grail, a quest that still continues. Each step up the -stairs has brought crisis and someone to help me overcome -that crisis and move on to the next. And seven being -an enchanted number and stairs moving inward and outward -<span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>as well as upward and downward, the ascent is unending, -and every step a new beginning, where we must -stand our ground and pay the price for it.</p> - -<p class='c014'>There is a Seven Stairs lurking unbeknown down every -street as there was for me on a summer day, getting off -the bus at the wrong corner on my way to meet my -brother-in-law for lunch and walking along Rush Street, -fascinated with the strangeness of the neighborhood. I -was reading all the signs, for no purpose at all, but one -that said, “Studio for Rent,” stuck with me. I turned back -to look at it again before rounding the corner to go to my -appointment.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I met Mel in the kind of restaurant that is exactly the -same everywhere, the same I had been in a few weeks earlier -while awaiting my army discharge in San Francisco, -the same fixtures, the same food, the same waitresses, the -same voices. But as I leaned across the table and began -talking, I experienced a sudden excitement and an idea -generated which I announced with as much assurance as -though it had been the outcome of months of deliberation. -Fifteen years later, I can still see Mel’s jaw drop and his -momentary difficulty in breathing when I told him I had -decided I wanted to go into business.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“What kind of business?” he said, finally.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I told him that what Chicago needed was a real bookstore. -It seemed to me that I had always had visions of -my name across a storefront: Stuart Brent, Bookseller. I -made him go with me to look at the “for rent” sign, then -together we went to see the landlord—my terrible, mincing, -Machiavellian, fat little landlord.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>We borrowed the keys and went back to see the studio. -Mel didn’t really want to go along, but somehow I had to -have him with me. If the quarters turned out to be disappointing, -I didn’t think I could stand it. But when we -opened the door, the hot, dirty room was magic. As I -looked up at the sixteen foot ceiling, I imagined pretty -Victorian society girls dressing here for the ball. I wasn’t -seeing the room. I had just stepped through the door from -Berkeley Square.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Isn’t this rather small for what you have in mind?” Mel -said.</p> - -<p class='c014'>“No, no,” I said, “it’s just fine. Everything is just -fine!”</p> - -<hr class='c024'> -<div class='footnote' id='f1'> -<p class='c014'><a href='#r1'>1</a>. Conroy’s works consist of two novels, <i>The Disinherited</i> and <i>A World -to Win</i>, several children’s books, and <i>They Seek the City</i>, a history of -Negro migration written in collaboration with Arna Bontemps with the -assistance of a Guggenheim Fellowship.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f2'> -<p class='c014'><a href='#r2'>2</a>. An informative pamphlet on literary agents can be obtained from -the Society of Authors Representatives, 522 Fifth Avenue, New York 36.</p> -</div> -<div class='c004'></div> -<hr class='c020'> - -<p class='c025'><a id='endnote'></a></p> -<div class='tnotes'> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='large'>Transcriber’s Note:</span></div> - </div> -</div> - - <ul class='ul_2'> - <li>The errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted - here. - </li> - <li>Where hyphenation occurs on a line break, the decision to retain or remove is based - on occurrences elsewhere in the text. - </li> - <li>Errors in punctuation and quotes have been silently restored. - </li> - <li>The footnotes were moved to the end of the e-text. - </li> - <li>The numbers below reference the page and line in the original book. - </li> - </ul> - -<table class='table1'> -<colgroup> -<col class='colwidth15'> -<col class='colwidth23'> -<col class='colwidth61'> -</colgroup> - <tr> - <th class='c009'>reference</th> - <th class='c009'>correction</th> - <th class='c011'>original text</th> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_7.4'></a><a href='#corr7.4'>7.4</a> </td> - <td class='c009'>occupied</td> - <td class='c011'>occuped by a painter</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_34.32'></a><a href='#corr34.32'>34.32</a></td> - <td class='c009'>bookstore</td> - <td class='c011'>moving her Gold Coast book store</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_37.31'></a><a href='#corr37.31'>37.31</a></td> - <td class='c009'>sometimes</td> - <td class='c011'>sometimes tight and drawn, some times</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_41.20'></a><a href='#corr41.20'>41.20</a></td> - <td class='c009'>impression</td> - <td class='c011'>and the only inpression you can</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_44.10'></a><a href='#corr44.10'>44.10</a></td> - <td class='c009'>bestseller</td> - <td class='c011'>who wrote a best-seller thirty</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_65.19'></a><a href='#corr65.19'>65.19</a></td> - <td class='c009'>similar</td> - <td class='c011'>who hold similiar views on</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_66.19'></a><a href='#corr66.19'>66.19</a></td> - <td class='c009'>became</td> - <td class='c011'>if one of the “faithful” become</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_68.2'></a><a href='#corr68.2'>68.2</a> </td> - <td class='c009'>conflict</td> - <td class='c011'>my inner conflct remained</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_88.29'></a><a href='#corr88.29'>88.29</a></td> - <td class='c009'>bestsellers</td> - <td class='c011'>under the pop numbers and best-sellers</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_88.31'></a><a href='#corr88.31'>88.31</a></td> - <td class='c009'>Malcolm</td> - <td class='c011'>Malcom Cowley, the distinguished critic</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_95.26'></a><a href='#corr95.26'>95.26</a></td> - <td class='c009'>Terkel</td> - <td class='c011'>Turkel’s famous “Studs’ Place”</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_100.13'></a><a href='#corr100.13'>100.13</a></td> - <td class='c009'>stick-up</td> - <td class='c011'>‘This is a stickup!’</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_106.13'></a><a href='#corr106.13'>106.13</a></td> - <td class='c009'>and</td> - <td class='c011'>ad civic responsibility</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_106.17'></a><a href='#corr106.17'>106.17</a></td> - <td class='c009'>café</td> - <td class='c011'>at a small cafe</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_111.39'></a><a href='#corr111.39'>111.39</a></td> - <td class='c009'>interrupted</td> - <td class='c011'>was often interupted</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_121.6'></a><a href='#corr121.6'>121.6</a> </td> - <td class='c009'>sing-song</td> - <td class='c011'>low, almost singsong voices</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_131.2'></a><a href='#corr131.2'>131.2</a> </td> - <td class='c009'>We</td> - <td class='c011'>we lived at 1639 South</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_150.9'></a><a href='#corr150.9'>150.9</a> </td> - <td class='c009'>interrupted</td> - <td class='c011'>interupted whatever I was</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_101.26'></a><a href='#corr101.26'>101.26</a></td> - <td class='c009'>hardcover</td> - <td class='c011'>copies of the hard-cover book</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_174.19'></a><a href='#corr174.19'>174.19</a></td> - <td class='c009'>say was</td> - <td class='c011'>really meant to say that</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_175.1'></a><a href='#corr175.1'>175.1</a> </td> - <td class='c009'>old-time</td> - <td class='c011'>old time actor in it</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><a id='c_186.4'></a><a href='#corr186.4'>186.4</a> </td> - <td class='c009'>success</td> - <td class='c011'>as the sucess of the book</td> - </tr> -</table> - -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEVEN STAIRS ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - 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