It was great working there. Many on the staff were much older, and one, Burt, knowing I was a hayseed, would throw books at me, saying: “Here kid… read this… he’s a great writer.” I can’t recall his suggestions, but soon my writing-deprived mind became very excited. It seemed you could do anything with words.

There weren’t any musicians working there back then. Most of the staff was interested in literature, and some of them were writers, painters, photographers.

Fred Bass, the owner of the Strand who died this week at 89, was a very good guy. After I was late for work over 20 times, he finally just warned me he’d have to let me go because other workers were noticing and coming in late too. I asked him to reduce my paycheck, but he wouldn’t.

As I recall, he liked Matisse, and any book about him he didn’t have he took home.

I never saw him lose his temper, even with his dad, who was an incredibly loud, impatient, insulting porcupine of a man…though no workers took him seriously. He was a source of comedy — a book of anecdotes about him would be very funny.