The secondhand sector was dying, and his father thought he should try another trade. But by then Fred had been thoroughly infected. The book-dust he had been sweeping up since schooldays had got into his blood, and he never got it out. Working with his father, an immigrant from Lithuania who had battled destitution by browsing and acquiring, was sparky. But the pursuit of books united them. He would lug the precious bundles back on the subway, the rope digging into his hands.

On Strand’s Fred Bass, this lovely piece –

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