It was about two-thirds of the way down the pile when she spotted it. There were a couple of cracks – one faint and barely noticeable, the other quite a bit more pronounced – going horizontally all the way across the spine. But Clare could still make out the title and the author on the book: Steppenwolf by Herman Hesse. The style of lettering in which the words appeared, however, she didn’t believe she’d seen elsewhere, and that gave her cause for optimism.

Could this have been the exact edition of Steppenwolf she’d been desperately trying to find?

It was temporarily imprisoned by the books stacked above it, but Clare was nonetheless determined to get the closer look she needed. Dogpiled on top of it were seven or eight other paperbacks about the same size – the small, portable kind that they used to call “mass markets” – also used copies, and in similarly harried condition. The titles included several recent bestselling novels (one of which was the second installment of a very popular fantasy series), a diet plan book, a tell-all by a famous rock star and collection of crossword puzzles.
She leaned in to try and dislodge the book from the pile. Despite her elation, she managed do it quite gingerly, so as not to knock the other books over, and ultimately leave everything else exactly as she’d found it.

This was one of Clare’s favorite tables among those operated by the street vendors on Sixth Avenue in New York City near the West 4th Street-Washington Square subway stop. She could even (for the most part) ignore the pile of hardcore pornographic magazines usually situated on the far left corner. There was also a stack of old 12-inch disco records propped up vertically, leaning against the front right leg. Everything else on this one table was books, which in turn were represented by a wide variety of bindings, sizes, subjects and conditions.
Rain and similarly disruptive weather were always the principle threat to these venders, but today not only the sun but also the temperature - a dry and comfortable sixty-two or so degrees – seemed to offer their full cooperation. Still, the Greek food truck which was usually parked on the corner chose to take the day off, so by default the aroma which dominated the immediate area was coming from the nearby pizza place which sold two slices plus a small soda for $2.50 (as they informed everyone through a sign handwritten on a paper plate).

Some of the neighboring vendor tables hawked everything from vintage comic books and baseball cards to used electronic devices and quasi-legal drug paraphernalia. Between them, the sidewalk peddlers on this relatively minute stretch of the America’s biggest city probably offered something for every taste.

However, Clare always knew exactly what she was looking for. And after successfully freeing Steppenwolf from the heap, she knew instantly that she’d found it when she spotted a name on the cover that wasn’t “Herman Hesse.”

That name was “Max von Sydow.”