Wednesday, April 20, 2005

that need to possess...

Carl Sandburg, renowned Lincoln collector and Pulitzer Prize winner (for his biography of Lincoln), recalls a tale that so aptly describes the near-pathological nature of some aspects of collecting:

"...[Oliver] Barrett saw a manuscript in the handwriting of Robert Burns--the verses of "Auld Lang Syne"--he said 'I want this "Auld Lang Syne,"' [Charles] Gunther replied, 'I know how you feel. I went over to England and I got it and I had to pay a lot of money.'
Barrett: 'I want it now. You know how it feels to have it, and I don't know how it feels.'
Gunther: 'I will sell you this "Auld Lang Syne" and you write out the receipt and put in the receipt that any time I want it, I can buy it back at the same price.'
Barrett took it home. A week later Gunther was on the phone and saying: 'Bring back the "Auld Lang Syne." You know, I haven't been able to sleep. I hear the waves of Lake Michigan pounding at night and I think about it. I walk down Michigan Avenue thinking about it, and now it is gone and I am not going to last many years. Let me have it back.'

Basbanes was right...a gentle madness, indeed.

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1 Comments:

At 4:40 PM , Anonymous Anonymous said...

As a child and teenager I lived about
a half mile from Carl Sandburg. One
of my friends was the acolyte for his
funeral at our church. While we frequently saw his wife and daughter we never saw him and we knew better than to go up the driveway to Connemara where he lived. He had a reputation for shooting a shotgun over the heads of people, one pair of newlyweds went to see him and fled post haste. I never saw Connemara up close until after he died. Every kid in the neighborhood
knew to stay off that property while we did explore every other manse in the area. Flat Rock was a very exclusive place to live at that time and had been for 120 years. Elvis nearly bought a huge tract and mansion there. We owned two of them at different times. He sure liked large herds of goats though. We frequently saw them jumping up at the tree branches along the fences.

So the national poet wasn't as warm
and fuzzy as fog on little cat feet.

A former Flat Rock NC Resident.

 

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