Humboldt's Gift

Humboldt's GiftIt so happened that I, Charlie Citrine, a lanky bald person with kinky back hair, ambled into a sort of eminence while my friend Von Humboldt Fleisher dropped dead. He, the poet, died in a dismal hotel. I, a different sort of writer, remained to mourn him in prosperity. I couldn't help it, I had made money, too. Ah, money, the money! Humboldt thought I had a lot. He said I was a millionaire. He didn't say, he accused me of making millions.And money wasn't what I had in mind. What...