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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.