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.