Stephen H. Wakeman: American Literature Enthusiast

Stephen H. Wakeman

“If you can get that,” said Mr. Wakeman, “all right.  But remember that the collection is to be offered to no one but Mr. Morgan. . . “
          Surprises await even the most assiduous of biblio-readers.  I encountered this passage in George S. Hellman’s largely forgotten book, Lanes of Memory (1927), a collection of autobiographical essays.  Hellman (1878-1958) was a prolific writer and editor.  He was also a dealer and collector of rare autographs, manuscripts, books and art.   In the early 20^th century, Hellman sold exceptional literary material to J. Pierpont Morgan and other prominent collectors.  His discursive essays rambled down many literary bypaths and gems of manuscript and book hunting surfaced irregularly.  None read better than his chapter on selling material to J. Pierpont Morgan.  It was Hellman who facilitated the sale of collector Stephen H. Wakeman’s exceptional gathering of American literary manuscripts to Morgan.  That episode, a portion of which is dangled above as a prelude, is reproduced in its entirety below.  Hellman’s account is an unusually candid insider’s view of a blockbuster transaction.  Hellman had an advantage in his retelling.  He originally supplied Wakeman much of the manuscript material including the famous Thoreau journals.

Thinning the Herd: Larry McMurtry Cuts 300,000 Books Loose in a Two Day Auction

The Royal Theater in Archer City, Texas, inspired Larry McMurtry’s novel, The Last Picture Show, and featured prominently in Peter Bogdanovich’s both brilliant and unrelentingly bleak 1971 film adaptation.  The renovated theater hall was now serving as a large dining room for a pre-auction barbecue dinner Thursday night August 9th complete with all the fixin’s and a truckload of Shiner Bock beer.  The heat outside, even at dinner time, was stifling enough to irritate native Texans and cause consternation among attendees from more northern climes.  Inside however the air blew cool and some 150 book enthusiasts enjoyed food and conversation, all glancing occasionally toward the entrance door for sight of McMurtry.

                He showed up fashionably late, moving slow and steady, suspenders in place, white shirt mildly untucked, tennis shoes and jeans worn easy, completing a look that was a cross between local rancher and bohemian college professor: both wellsprings that flow through his complex personality.  He’d suffered a second heart attack a few months back and at age 76 was physically frail and quiet spoken but mentally sharp.