We Are Many, by Pablo Neruda. Published in the U.S. in simultaneous cloth and paper editions by Cape Goliard/Grossman, the U.S. wing of Cape Goliard. I bought the book yesterday in the old-fashioned way -- I saw it on a shelf in Moe's rare book room, which seemed invigorated by new stock. It wasn't there last time, and I feared it wouldn't be there next time. This post really doesn't have anything to do with Allan, although his ghost shadows me everywhere.
Is there a bibliography or even a checklist anywhere of the Cape Goliard Press? It published Ginsberg, Neruda, Creeley, Burroughs and others in the late 1960s and early 1970s. The editions were attractive and often over-size, with signed and numbered runs for the collector. It was an off-shoot of Cape. A cursory Google search reveals nothing helpful.
I already have several copies of different states of this book. At least one is in storage but I was also able to find on my shelves a copy of the hardcover of the UK issue, issued a year earlier. The UK colophon calls for 1400 paperback copies and 100 hardbound signed copies, but my hardcover is not signed or in the special limited jacket but a pictorial white jacket.
This edition bought yesterday is only the paperback, but what prompted me to pull out my wallet was the review slip that was tucked in. Publication date was April 26, 1968, midway between the King and RFK assassinations and a rather tumultuous time in America.
This copy of the book -- it's barely more than a pamphlet, really -- has weathered its near half century well. There is a tiny snag to the top of the glassine jacket, otherwise it is fine. The cover cut-out by Jim Dine in untorn. The pages are fresh. The cheapest fine copy of the UK trade paper edition is $56 from Any Amount of Books. The cheapest limited is from Bernard Shapero for $1100, which seems reasonable. There's only one other fine copy of the U.S. editon online -- weirdly, it is another review copy for $60.
Ah, but what about the poems themselves. Since when do we collectors care about the contents? There are seven poems here, good but not great Neruda, which is enough:
rubbing me off the blackboard.
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