ABSTRACT
As Peter delved into the private papers of Seymour Henderson and grasped the far-reaching holdings of this financial octopus, he laughed mockingly at those poets and artists who dismissed finance as dull and unromantic. The true epic poem was not the journey of an emotion which finally spent itself in some trivial sexual yelp, but the wanderings of a dollar investment as it went whoring from individual to corporation, from corporation to syndicate, until it achieved its ultimate shrine, the cool vault, in the shape of a gold bond. The peregrinations of Ulysses, Gil Bias, Childe Harolde, became little journeys compared to the crusades of the dollar.
