May

16

 I dreamed my father was reading a book about King Arthur to me.

He was sitting a few feet away from me as he did every night.

The book told the story of King Arthur's last battle with Mordred.

A few days later we walked a block down Russell Gardens and he started crying saying, "I don't know what will happen to Roy".

I was too foolish to know that he was telling me he had Lymphoma.

My father loved books almost as much as he loved his family and teaching.

He always had five or six books under his arm from the local library.

Our House had more books per square inch than any other.

He was a policeman in the Ninth Precinct, the publishing district.

The publishers would hire policeman to throw the books in the East River.

To save them the charge, Artie would take them to our 1500 sq ft house.

Many a time Artie would be coming home from work carrying 5 books.

If he saw a bad perp doing a crime he would use one hand to disable him.

He wrote 4 books and he cried when he finished the last one, "The Police Family".

Everyone loved Artie. On his last evening alive, he marked exam books.

He gave them all A's.

I started collecting books in the spirit of Artie.

My collection was once featured next to Getty's and Rockefeller's.

A dealer told me, "people don't read books any more. Collect Audubon."

He was right. The Audubon books have gone from 10,000 to a million. [news story]

All other non-illustrated books have stayed the same in 40 years.

A first edition of The Wealth of Nations cost me 80,000 in 1970. It's the same price today.

I collected all the old books about the stock market.

In the 19th century they told the story of frauds and cons. Just like the ones that they have today.

Some of the books are rare like "50 Years on Wall Street".

When Wiley wanted to republish it, they borrowed my copy to save money.

On my library book shelf Clews sits next to "My Adventures With Your Money".

The rarest stock market book I got hold of is "Jesse Livermore's Secret System".

He wrote it in one last hope that he had to make back the fortune he had lost.

There were only 50 copies that he signed.

I gave my copy to Laurel and she needed money. She offered it for high 5 figures. And a mysterious trend following buyer from Greenwich who Brett used to work for plucked it up.

Shortly after writing the book Livermore committed suicide in the rest room of the Sherry Netherlands.

I never pass that hotel on the east side of Central Park without crossing the street to stay away from the memories.


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