I imagine stacks of these books I desire so much are gathering dust in danger of water in a box in a garage somewhere in a small village in Nigeria–bought by an aficionado, with writerly ambitions that came to naught, in the 60’s and 70’s.
I imagine I was Lorenzo di Medici, sending my agents to scour the nooks of this country, armed with a bag of gold, their task to return with original Editions in good conditions.
I want money and power to be able to abuse them to get the sentimental things I want! Not too much to ask, is it? 🙂