The Glass Bead Collector
The story begins. I met Arthur Delaney in the autumn of 1952. He moved into the top floor of our apartment building on West 73rd Street, and the first time I saw him, he was carrying a box that was bigger than he was. The box was stuffed with books and glass beads—hundreds of them, in colors and shapes I could not have named if you had held a gun to my head. "Need a hand?" I asked. I was an...
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