GOLD
by James DorrYes, I love money. I love its symbol—what has become, for me, more than its symbol. I love gold.
Why should I not love it?
I had been poor once. I had known what it was like to scratch for dollars, to be dependent on others for work. I had understood early in life that the claim that work alone, without the help of extreme good fortune, could bring one from poverty into riches was one of the cruelest lies ever invented.
I had had that good fortune, however.
Shortly after my thirtieth birthday, an aunt, as poor as the rest of my family, died and left me the few things she owned. These, to be sure, were mostly worthless, but I, as is the habit of one born in poverty, sifted carefully through these remains. I found the stub of a lottery ticket, went to the library, sear
