Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: Pryor (Page 102 of 105)

Scribner. Another Tulsa ghost.

Before the American Civil War, in 1850, Isaac Baker died. His business partner paid off the estate and repainted the sign out front to read – Charles Scribner Company.

He published books.

After the war, the company began publishing a magazine, and then another – in that grand age of monthly editions. Later, his sons joined the firm, and at the father’s death the company was renamed Charles Scribner’s Sons. Over time, it became simply – Scribner.

When an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel was published, it bore the Scribner imprint. Same with Hemingway. Scribner managed to corral a number of influential writers like Kurt Vonnegut, Thomas Wolfe, and Edith Wharton. Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings won a Pulitzer for The Yearling, published by Scribner.

Stephen King didn’t win any Putlitzers, but won over a legion of readers during his contract years with Scribner with works like Dreamcatcher and Under the Dome, the latter soon-to-be-released as a film adaptation.

The name Scribner survives, in a fashion. The imprint is now owned by former rival Simon & Schuster, which was in turn acquired by CBS Corporation. During its heyday, Scribner operated a chain of bookstores anchored by its flagship location on Fifth Avenue in New York City.

The store was a marvel to behold, evoking a grandeur reflecting the lofty position held by books and authors at the time. 597 Fifth Avenue was built expressly for the housing of Scribner’s Bookstore. A glass front stopped passersby, who peered through to take in the two story interior complete with a mezzanine, an architectural masterpiece done up in a Beaux Arts style exterior. There was a vaulted ceiling and sunlight filtered in through clerestory windows.

At its demise in 1988, the New York Times treated the news as an obituary: SCRIBNER BOOK STORE, 75, TO CLOSE NEXT MONTH. A descendent of the founder lamented the occasion, but by then his paycheck was backed by Macmillan publishing which acquired Scribner four years earlier.

”A chapter of history is about to close,” said Charles Scribner 3rd at the time. No longer strictly Scribner, Charles the Third served as a vice president at Macmillan.

The Scribner stores were eventually acquired by Barnes and Noble following the breakup of the Scribner publishing and retail divisions. The Utica Square Scribners book store in Tulsa lingered past the millennium, but I could find no obit in the Tulsa World archives. A book signing was hosted there in 2001 – the final mention I found – although relics exist, like the bookmark tucked into a recent acquisition.

A bit like viewing gravestones, they underscore the often-fleeting nature of success. Makes me appreciate even more the opportunity I have to serve as a proprietor in a similar establishment – even if we’re on the economic endangered species list.

We know Oscar Meyer. Oscar Wilde? Not so much.

Dad and son came in to look around.

“Hmmm,” said Dad. “A bookstore.” He didn’t sound optimistic, but came in anyway.

His son might have been nine or ten years old. Certainly old enough to read and tall enough to see over the edge of the counter, where a doll-sized figure was displayed in a clear plastic card-backed package.

“Dad,” he called out. “Who is Oscar, Wild…Will-dee?”

“Uh-oh,” I thought. “This could be an awkward moment.”

I was remembering the scandals associated with Oscar Wilde (his name has an E at the end, which is – I suppose – why the young man read it as will-dee).

Even as the dad was considering his answer, I recalled putting a similar question to my mother.

“Mom,” I called out. “Who is Bridget Bardot?” Her name must have been mentioned on the television, that big clunky piece of furniture in our living room that displayed only black and white pictures. Maybe I saw a black and white version of Bridget Bardot that piqued my interest.

My mother didn’t hesitate in her reply.

“A movie star,” she said. “She likes to run around wearing nothing but a bath towel.”

I guess the answer worked well enough. I got the idea.

With the young man’s question posed in the book shop, I waited to hear the father’s answer. Finally, he sighed and admitted, “I have noooo idea.”

“He was an 1800s English writer,” I offered, trying to help out the dad. The kid was quick.

“Then why does that say ‘Action Figure?”

“It’s kind of a joke,” I responded. “He wasn’t known for X-Men kind of action.”

When Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde died in 1900, he was destitute and living in Paris. A victim of a scandal of his own creation.

He objected to something that was alleged to have been said about him by John Douglas, the Marquess of Queensbury. It was whisperings (some not so quiet) about Wilde and the son of the Marquess, Lord Alfred Douglas. Wilde sued for slander. In the course of the trial, enough mud was dragged into court concerning Wilde’s antics that he dropped the slander suit. It was too late, though. Wilde was charged with “gross indecencies,” convicted, and sentenced to two years of hard labor. He spent time in jail, although he spelled it gaol. He might have had better fortune in our current society, but in 1890s London there were some things best kept out of conversation.

In his day, Oscar Wilde was one of the most famous personalities around. He was born into a wealthy intellectual family, was well educated, known for his quick wit, and in 1890 authored a popular story called The Picture of Dorian Gray. It didn’t help the author during his lifetime, but when moving pictures were invented it was one of the early books adapted to film. It has been redone several times since that first Hungarian version in 1918.

Wilde had the intellect and wit of Dick Cavett, the social circles of Oprah Winfrey, the theatrical following of Neil Simon, and a wife as influential in her day as Hillary Clinton (well, maybe that last one is a stretch…).

Dapper-looking as he is, I thought Oscar the action figure would be gone by now, landing under some lucky literary Christmas tree. His action figure comrade Charles Dickens found himself a home over the holidays.

But then again – he was more will-dee than Wilde.

Notes and notables.

You’d be surprised at what might be found in books turned in to the shop. Wedding pictures. Postcards. Bookstore receipts (lots of those, mostly from high-priced sellers). A valid US passport, which – fortunately – belonged to a woman still shopping when it was discovered. Bookmarks from long-shuttered bookstores.

Post-it note place keepers. Candy wrappers. A hastily-written last will and testament. That one gave me pause, I have to say.

Still – not a single piece of currency. Not even a single one-dollar bill.

Yesterday, I came across an angrily-written, unsigned, and undated letter to Etta. My detective skills tell me that the name Etta took a dive in popularity in the 1930s, after being a top-ten candidate back in the 1880s.

The letter appears to have been written with a ballpoint pen, which first went on sale in the US in 1945.

My guess is, the letter-writer was perhaps a grandmother or aunt to Barbara, the subject of the terse writing. Apparently, Barbara had gone back to her boyfriend after discovering she was “expecting a baby,” and in the writer’s opinion the beau was “not fit to be a father because of being a grasshopper… no steady job.”

She still cared enough about the young woman to forward a $25 check to the letter’s recipient, to “take Barbara to town to buy her a new pair of shoes and a nice dress for her birthday.”

That’s about as close to finding money as I’ve come – finding a letter about a check.

More commonly found are penned inscriptions, written inside the front cover or on the first free endpaper. Sometimes, they seem to tell their own stories in the few words included or the manner in which they are written.

I was particularly impressed with Rodney’s elaborate penmanship in his inscription inside a leather-bound volume which was a Christmas gift to Miss Minnie Wilcox. You can click on any image to see it more closely. If you click the lower-right image, you can see that Rodney penned the inscription in 1849… one-hundred-sixty-four years ago.

Someone told me recently that penmanship is no longer taught in school. From the example in the image, it is clear we don’t have sufficient time to devote to such beautiful and elaborate causes as book-signing. There was once a day in which there was time enough.

I was exposed to the art of cursive for all the good it has done me. I can produce a tidy example of script given enough time, but when I’m in a hurry – my scribbling winds up as printed letters.

Go figure.

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