Thrifting Roger Richards’ Signed Collection of Poetry for $1.99
Finding signed works by Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs, John Ashbery, Gregory Corso, & more.
I’ve had an eBay account since 2012 and I’ve been buying and selling rare books for even longer. I’m attuned to notice an interesting cover, maybe a short-run from a smaller press, and flip through the first few pages hoping for the author’s signature.
I’ve had strange luck with finding signed copies.
Sometimes I can just look and feel a book’s energy.
Really.
A few months ago, I saw a Bo Burnham poetry book in the Little Free Library while walking Jack.
The energy screamed: I AM SIGNED.
I opened the little glass door, grabbed it, sure enough. Signed.
There was a time two summers ago where three books I ordered on eBay in the same week each came autographed, despite the listing not saying it.
Am I a magnet for these things or are people not looking anymore?
Last week, I was sifting through my local thrift store. It’s a few blocks from my house. I go once every week or two. It’s part warehouse, part thrift store, part toilets and lamps and rugs and old shoes and polyester dresses. I’ve seen cockroaches the length of my finger. Their bathroom also operates as the fitting room. Most of their clothes are covered with mysterious orange stains.
But their book section is incredible.
Countless shelves, the classic ladder with wheels to aid in climbing the tallest bookcases, areas that are sorted by last names or topics. There are so many books that it always takes thoughtful care to properly seek. I expect to crane my neck to the right for about 45 minutes. Sometimes more.
On this day, I found a dozen or so Evergreen Review lit mags. They’re like trade paperbacks, the covers are worn, the pages a bit tattered, they show signs of being read. Signs of life. Most still have the paper cut-out advising you to subscribe for a year for $5. No postage needed.
I’d never heard of these issues but they’re totally up my alley with comic-like drawings on the front and names associated like Jack Kerouac, William S. Borroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Pablo Neruda. I look at the year: 1959. Some are from the 70’s. They originally sold for $1.
Ok, this is sick. There are a bunch to choose from so I grab Volume 1 issue 1 & 2. The condition of all aren’t pristine, but good enough, so I grab them along with some other books. A first edition of Canetti’s Auto-De-Fe. A first edition of a small run of C.S. Lewis’s The Dark Tower & Other Stories. I go on my merry way.
Yesterday, I listed the two first editions. I expect them to take some time to sell. I’ll read parts before they end up finding a new home. I’m on to leafing through the Evergreen Review magazines. I’m seeing they run $35-$85 depending on condition. I don’t really want to sell them, they’re so niche and I’m into it. These are writers who are Patti Smith’s friends. These are the writers that I learned about in poetry classes. The godfathers of beat poetry, in a way.
As I’m leafing I notice an inscription,
“For Roger Richards [sincere words, I think it reads], James Purdy.”
Holy shit. It’s signed.
I throw “Roger Richards” into Google and nothing of note comes up.
Must have been some poetry fan, I figure. Dismiss it.
I grab the second issue. The cover is blue with a cityscape and reads, “San Francisco Scene”.
Next to Henry Miller’s piece he crosses out his name, signs it “Henry Miller, for Roger, 11/24/77”.
I keep leafing. Gary Snyder signed his name. I turn more pages. ALLEN GINSBERG SIGNED.
My heart races and I think about how days prior there were about a dozen more issues at the thrift store. I throw on my green trucker hat. No make-up. And I’m off.
The books are still there. I’m trembling as I grab a copy and flip through. Another signed by Allen Ginsberg. A few signed by William Burroughs. One dated March 26 ‘77. Gregory Corso.
I grab another. It’s inscribed “Roger”.
These are all his. All Roger Richards’.
I flip through them in shock. In awe. I’m in a mostly empty thrift store and I need to tell SOMEONE.
I turn to the middle-aged guy who is looking through records nearby.
He’s on his knees and going through a box.
There are more records than space and he’s sort of grunting to himself.
“Hey. So. You ever find anything good?”
He gives me a short reply something like, “You gotta dig. What’s the best thing you’ve found?”
I’m still going through the books. I hold one up.
“Probably this.
It’s signed by Allen fucking Ginsberg.”
“No way.”
He helps himself to an issue and leafs through.
“Gregory Corso!
Do you care if I keep this one?”
I say no. Who am I to hoard? My arms are full, anyways.
He offers me a Patti Smith Gloria/ My Generation 45 he found. Of course Patti Smith shows up in this scene. She has to.
I keep looking through the pages.
He Googles to see if the signatures are legit.
They are.
Why wouldn’t they be.
I find another one.
John Ashbery.
Signed in blue.
The ink smudges the opposing page.
I find an additional Allen Ginsberg signature, this time with an accompanying “AH”, which I look up and a few sites relay it’s related to the afterlife.
One Reddit user claims the AH is referring to the initials of the scientist who founded LSD.
Another site says it means, “Ahhh.” As a mantra. The chant om closes the mouth, whereas ah leaves the breath open, joining body and mind.
I text Adam’s family’s group chat my excitement.
I bring my haul home.
I’m in disbelief. How long have these books sat there? I never check that shelf.
A random aisle end cap with a smattering of old philosophy books and the like.
Have these been here for months?
Nobody cracked these open?
My last big score at that same shop was a first edition of Gone with the Wind that I flipped for $85 and the buyer was thrilled and told me they put it on display in their home.
There isn’t a ton of money in hobby book buying and selling. It’s really a labor of love and a way to keep yourself curious and a treasure hunt. But these books felt different. I can’t just flip these.
Adam came home, me, still high on adrenaline of an amazing find. A stack of amazing finds.
I do my thousandth Google of the day: Roger Richards New York City.
There he is.
Smiling in his glasses, thick mustache, friendly. Approachable.
I discovered who owned these books.
The Roger Richards.
I found this photo and an incredible segment written by Romy Ashby.
Roger owned Greenwich Books and The Rare Book Room, which became a gathering place for students and lovers of poetry and of course – the Beats.
In this article from the NY Press, they write:
“In New York, few rare-book dealers are more legendary than Roger Richards, and few stores as legendary as his Greenwich Books, which was just off the corner of 14th and 8th. It's been closed for a decade now, but people still talk about it.
"We had unbelievable stuff in that shop," Richards told me, when, with the help of Clayton Patterson, I was able to meet with him at the White Horse two weeks ago. "I had these incredible Veronica Lake photos that were poster-sized... A Charles Manson demo record... At the end, I had a crayon drawing that Jimi Hendrix had done of Otis Redding. The biggest painting that ee cummings ever did, this 6-foot-by-4 thing. Incredible Henry Miller stuff..."
Richards was a friend of Miller's and, in 1978, published one of the last things Miller ever wrote, a chapbook with a print run of 200.”
The article mentions that the first person Roger met in New York City after moving here from a farm in New Hampshire was Hunter Thompson. They answered the same ad for a writing job and neither of them got it.
Roger had a 30-year friendship with Andy Warhol who he credits to the later success of his store, as Andy would send rich folks to the shop.
Roger had a cable access show, Greenwich Books Presents, where he had the beat poets featured in the mid-70s.
He opened his home to his friend, the poet Gregory Corso, for one night and he stayed for twelve years, until his death.
The more I read about Roger the more incredible he appears. He is described as a lightning rod.
Roger died on his 70th birthday in 2002.
Articles talk of Roger’s wit. His humor. His love for music and books. His amazing collections. His friendship. I feel like there must be so much lore about him that isn’t on the internet. In fact, the photo above is one of only two pictures I was able to find of him.
These books that I found aren’t just cool or rare – they’re relics.
And I don’t know if I’m some chosen keeper of these marks in history,
as in they found me cosmically,
because I’m also a book seller,
and I also write poems.
I don’t know why they ended up at my thrift store in Brooklyn,
Or why now, twenty-two years after Roger’s death,
Or why the nice cashier guy decided to only charge me $1.99 a piece.
I’m not sure what the right thing is to do.
They feel special.
Like I want to protect them and put them in a glass case,
but also like I want to let them live as they probably have for decades,
out in the open,
getting dusty and sunburnt.
I do know
I will read them.
Sit them high on my living room shelf
And regard them as talismans.
With strong names signed inside of them like:
Ginsberg and Ashbery and Miller and Corso and Burroughs…
And Roger Richards.
Jamie- Your point on being able to look and feel a book’s energy is so interesting because it’s so true. Something about texts is quite visceral. I’m glad you mentioned this. Hope you’re well this week? Cheers, -Thalia
adore this for you, i’d think he’d be super glad they ended up in your library