I once knew a man named Earl, who was born during the McKinley Administration. In due course he married. In the 1930s he and his wife bought a little house, squeezed into a narrow lot in the middle of a long block.
In the 1960s the Great Institution across the street offered to buy their house. They wanted to build a parking lot. "I'll sell for $12,000," said Earl. "Nonsense," said the Great Institution, "your house isn't worth more than $9,000." "I know that," said Earl, "but my wife likes the house, and I don't want to move."
Several years later the Great Institution offered $18,000. "I want $21,000," said Earl. "No," said the G.I.
Several years later the G.I. offered $30,000. "I want $35,000," said Earl. "No," said the G.I., "we can't pay you more than it's worth."
Several years later the G.I. offered $50,000. "I want $60,000," said Earl. "We've bought all the other houses on the block," said the G.I. "We'll build around you." "Fine with me," said Earl.
It's easy to say that you 'll build around someone else's house, and a casino in Atlantic City actually did just that, but it's not so easy when you want to build a parking garage and the lot you don't own is in the exact middle of the block and bisects your floor plan. The G.I. didn't build.
One day the Man in Charge of the G.I. looked out his window and saw Earl building an addition to his house. (Earl, who was at least 75 by this time, was doing it himself.) "All right," the Man in Charge told Earl. "I understand that you like your house. We really need your lot for our garage. What would it take to get you to sell it to us?"
"Hmmm," said Earl. "If you find a house that my wife likes as much as this one, we will trade you this house for that one."
Earl was a man of simple and unassuming tastes. His wife wasn't. It turned out that she liked a house high above the Great Institution, three times as large and five times as valuable as the house they were selling. (And once the owner found out why the G.I. wanted to buy that house, the price jumped by $100,000.)
At about this time Earl wrote me and asked if truth was absolute or relative (he was reading Spinoza then). He may have been pondering whether the statement "The G.I. saved $3,000 in 1965 when it didn't buy my house" was absolutely true. If so, he was pondering it while sitting on his balcony, drinking a glass of French wine, and enjoying a view of the city that was, and is to this day, not just relatively but absolutely splendid.