Posts Tagged ‘auction’
August 21, 2013 | by Sadie Stein
In the words of my colleague Justin Alvarez, “Holy Iceman Cometh, Eugene O’Neill’s underpants finally for sale!” Well, for a cool $1,750. The shop’s owner captioned the shorts “longjohn’s journey into night.” Seriously, we can do this all day.
February 19, 2013 | by Sadie Stein
The handwritten manuscript of a poem by the man considered the worst poet in the English language, William Topaz McGonagall, is expected to fetch up to £3,000 at auction. While the doggerel-esque verse, “In Praise of the Royal Marriage,” is certainly no threat to Tennyson, it doesn’t seem worthy of the dead-fish and rotten-egg tributes the Scottish bard’s performances regularly elicited on the music hall stage. His most infamous work is probably “The Tay Bridge Disaster,” commemorating an 1879 bridge collapse in which numerous train passengers were killed; it is either a masterpiece of outsider art or of insensitivity.
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay! Alas! I am very sorry to say That ninety lives have been taken away On the last Sabbath day of 1879, Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
June 29, 2012 | by The Paris Review
April 26, 2012 | by Sadie Stein
Eight thousand dollars might seem high for a Smith Corona—even a vintage one—but when you consider it belonged to Truman Capote, and during the period in which he wrote In Cold Blood, the surprising thing is that the eBay auction only drew two bidders.
Quoth the seller, an acquaintance of the author’s:
All of these personal things were given to me by Mr. Capote. I picked him up from the airport in Kansas City, Missouri, several times and drove him to Holcomb, Kansas. Mr. Capote was getting information on a crime that took place there for a book he was writing.
No, I don’t use a typewriter. Not in the beginning. I write my first version in longhand (pencil). Then I do a complete revision, also in longhand.
December 6, 2011 | by The Paris Review
They say it’s better to give than to receive, but by bidding in the Paris Review Auction, you can do both!
This year’s auction features extraordinary feasts, luxurious excursions, rare first editions, and one-of-a-kind artwork, as well as book discussions with Paris Review editors, naming opportunities for novel characters, and much more. It’s a chance to be a part of our rich history—and pamper yourself or someone special in the bargain.
And a holiday bonus: all proceeds support America’s premiere literary magazine. (That’s us, by the way.)
To view and bid on these and other exclusive items click here. Auction ends December 11.
January 4, 2011 | by A. N. Devers
Over the years, Edward Gorey collected twenty-one fur coats, which he was notorious for wearing with Converse sneakers, often to the New York City Ballet. Sometime in the eighties, however (he died in 2000), Gorey seems to have had a change of heart. He opened portions of his home to a family of raccoons that finally settled in the attic. According to a tour guide at the Edward Gorey House, this was an act of penance; Gorey felt guilty for wearing their fur. At some point he locked up his coats in a storage facility. In his will, he left his entire estate to the care and welfare of animals.
Among the many beneficiaries of the Edward Gorey Charitable Trust: the Xerces Society, dedicated to biological diversity through invertebrate conservation; the Bat Conservation International Foundation; and the Animals League of Boston (Cape Cod branch). But because of this commitment to our furry friends, the Edward Gorey Charitable Trust faced a difficult decision when it came to his coats. One of them—the one Gorey sketched most frequently—hangs on display in the museum. But the cost of properly storing the others was exorbitant. The trustees began to sell one coat a year. After some deliberation, the trustees decided last year to auction off the remainder in one go. For a Gorey fan, it was an unimaginable opportunity.
The sale was held at Bloomsbury Auctions on West 48th Street in New York. Despite some advance press, it was a sparsely attended affair; most of the seats were empty. Of the dozen or so people scattered among the seats, most showed the true and devoted look of a Gorey fan. The coats hung on a rack in the back of the room, and people took turns trying them on. One raven-haired woman posed for a picture, wrapping the fur around her. As we took our seats, an older gentleman sat down behind us, wearing a three-piece suit with a watch chain—the kind of ensemble Gorey could have sketched in his sleep.