Good night, Mr. Phelps

Peter Graves, most famous for his roles on the television show Mission: Impossible and the movie Airplane!, died earlier today.

Graves died of an apparent heart attack outside his Los Angeles home, publicist Sandy Brokaw said. He would have been 84 this week.

I was a sophomore in college in February 1991, and a part of the college concert chorale, which toured for four days every year. On that particular year we sang in a few churches around Washington, D.C. We were fortunate enough to savour a few Saturday morning hours by wandering around the Mall. After walking by the Lincoln Memorial towards the Korean War Veterans Memorial, I passed by a particularly gloomy group. They were led by Peter Graves, whom I immediately recognized. I was feeling rather plucky, so I approached him and asked, "Sir, are you who I think you are?" He responded with a whispery, "I suppose so," and walked on. A woman, whom I could only assume was his wife, gave me the dirtiest of looks. I didn't care. I had spoken to Captain Clarence Oveur, and he spoke to me.

Don LaFontaine, a voice out of this world

the passing of a friend

It's truly a strange thing to not really think about someone for nearly two decades, then to hear of his passing and be unable to stop thinking about him. One of my friends from high school, Heath Hartline, recently went to be with the Lord after a brief battle with colon cancer. You can read his obituary here. The picture exactly portrays how I remember him - a smiling, friendly guy.

God rest you, Heath.

Pierre Berès, 1913-2008

I occasionally peruse the obit section of the New York Times, and I was intrigued by this one on Pierre Berès, a book collector and seller. He died last Monday at the age of 95.

“We have lost a legendary figure in the world of art, collecting and publishing,” said the French culture minister, Christine Albanel.

Mr. Berès had already staged a memorable exit from the world of books in 2005. Closing the store he had run since the late 1930s on the Avenue Friedland, near the Arc de Triomphe, he put his collection of 12,000 books up for sale. In a series of six sales at Drouet, the auction house, spaced out over two years, records fell as bidders lined up for treasures like the first edition of Rimbaud’s “Season in Hell,” inscribed by the author to Verlaine.

The sale realized more than 35 million euros. Mr. Berès headed off to retirement in his modern villa in St. Tropez, but not before making a final grand gesture. Unexpectedly, he removed from the sale and donated to the French nation an edition of “The Charterhouse of Parma” that included Stendhal’s revisions, undertaken after he read Balzac’s criticisms of the novel’s opening pages.

I've always been intrigued with the idea of owning a bookshop. Berès excelled in acquiring and selling desirable rare books. I guess if you're going to retire from the bookshop world, 35 million euros is a good number to live on.

Mr. Berès excelled at creating a personal mystique. “I do not seek, I find,” he once proclaimed, cryptically, about his uncanny knack for turning up rare editions.

What's your personal mystique? If you have one, would other people say it is "excellent?" If you're going to live a life, you might as well make it an interesting one.