With a house of his own and money of his own, he could, and did, retire. After the struggles of youth in Europe and those of his early manhood in the United States, the serenity of a comfortable old age was pleasant. The last of life, for which the first was made.” He intoned them to himself, deep within the silent fortress of his mind, that very sunny and very bright early summer day of 1949: Most of it was obscure to him, but those first three lines had become one with the beating of his heart these last few years. By the sheer force of indiscriminate voracity, he had gleaned a smattering of practically everything, and by means of a trick memory had managed to keep it all straight.įor instance, he had read Robert Browning’s Rabbi Ben Ezra twice when he was younger, so, of course, knew it by heart. He looked exactly what he was: a retired tailor, thoroughly lacking in what the sophisticates of today call a “formal education.” Yet he had expended much of an inquisitive nature upon random reading. In a sense this was strange, since Schwartz would scarcely have impressed any casual passerby as the Browning-quoting type. Two minutes before he disappeared forever from the face of the Earth he knew, Joseph Schwartz strolled along the pleasant streets of suburban Chicago quoting Browning to himself.
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