Late at night on July 13th, 1972, an unknown person entered the University of Manchester’s Library and violently smashed the plate glass top of an exhibition case, stealing the contents. Inside was one of the most famous, most valuable books in existence: the library’s near-perfect edition of one of Shakespeare’s First Folios. This theft is the most mysterious of all the stolen First Folios. More than fifty years have passed, and this First Folio—one of the 750 printed in 1623 and of the estimated 232 known copies across the globe today—is still missing.
This year, 2023, marks the 400th year anniversary of the printing of Shakespeare’s First Folio, deemed one of the most significant books in the English language, “a coveted treasure,” to quote Eric Rasmussen, an expert on the First Folios and author of The Shakespeare Thefts: In Search of the First Folios. Without the First Folio, we would not have many of Shakespeare’s most famous plays, the half that were not printed in his lifetime, including The Taming of the Shrew, Macbeth, Twelfth Night, and The Tempest. In collecting and printing these plays, Shakespeare’s two close friends and fellow actors, John Heminges and Henry Condell, validated that plays are more than entertainment—they have literary value.
The First Folios still in existence are mainly housed in public institutions—their significance is underscored by their rarity, as copies are almost never available for sale, and the most recent one sold in 2020 for almost ten-million dollars. Even in the seventeenth century, when the First Folios were first printed, they were only available to elite members of society: earls, lords, knights, admirals, and the occasional lawyer. To this day, ownership is limited to, and a fetish among, the super wealthy. Because of their elite status, Rasmussen speculates that, of the copies that cannot be located, most “have probably been stolen.”
For some, as Rasmussen suggests, the First Folio is coveted because of its monetary value, an object to steal and eventually attempt to sell. Three First Folios were stolen in the 20th century alone, including the Manchester Library’s copy, and the thieves in the latter two cases are characters as strange as some of those in Shakespeare’s plays, the heists as thrilling as some of his plots. The thefts we describe, and the desires that inspire them, speak to Shakespeare’s foothold in Western civilization—the reverence and awe so many people have for him, that imbue the First Folio with an almost religious power.
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In February 2009, defendant Raymond Scott, charged with stealing and damaging Durham University’s First Folio, showed up to trial in a silver stretch limo, holding a cigar and a cup of noodles, reading aloud from Shakespeare’s Richard III:
“A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!”
During the trial, Scott continued to quote Shakespeare and attempted to use Shakespearean English. This behavior irritated the judge so much that he told Scott, “Don’t be so dramatic, please just speak normally.”
In June of the previous year, Scott appeared at the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington DC and presented what he claimed was an undiscovered First Folio. Scott explained to the Folger’s head librarian, Richard Kuhta, that he had just flown in from Cuba, perhaps obvious from the tropical clothing he was wearing—an oversized shirt with a fish on it, copious amounts of jewelry, and loafers with no socks. In essence, he was a modern version of a Shakespearean fool. Scott later explained in an interview with a Washington Post reporter that he adored antiques of all sorts, but especially books. “The only thing that I don’t like that are antiques are my girlfriends!” he joked, explaining that his Cuban fiancée was twenty-one years old—thirty years younger than him.
Kuhta determined the book Scott presented was, indeed, a prized First Folio; however, he also noted that the frontispiece, the title page, and the last page were all missing, making him wonder if the book had been mutilated so that it would not be recognized. For these reasons, Kuhta suspected that Scott’s First Folio might be a stolen copy, not a newly discovered one, and suggested that an independent expert, Stephen Massey, be flown in to examine the book and discover its provenance. Scott, who wanted to alert the media immediately, reluctantly agreed and covered Massey’s $3,000 airfare. Indeed, this money was worth spending if he could get the book accepted as a new First Folio, which would sell for millions.
Upon inspection, Massey found numerous marks proving that this copy was, in fact, one stolen from Durham University library back in 1998, a decade earlier, despite the fact the First Folio was scrubbed of many features that would’ve identified it. The FBI and police were promptly called, and Scott was arrested at his home in Tyne, where he lived with his mother and beloved yellow Ferrari.
At first Scott wasn’t concerned; he claimed that Massey was mistaken and that no one could ever definitively distinguish between copies of the First Folio. As it turned out, however, Scott’s stories were a web of lies. Meanwhile, his champagne tastes were funded by stolen credit cards. When he was finally arrested, he was over £90,000 in debt. And when he stopped sending money to his Cuban fiancée, she promptly moved on.
During the trial, the First Folio was brought into the courtroom in a padlocked strong box and subsequently presented on a pillow. Kuhta testified that the book presented “is a cultural legacy that has been damaged, brutalized, and mutilated.” The judge branded the damage Scott did to this First Folio as “cultural vandalisation” of a “quintessentially English treasure.”
Scott received an eight-year sentence for handling stolen goods and removing the First Folio from England. Two years later in his cell, after he lost an appeal, Scott, like so many of Shakespeare’s tragic heroes, committed suicide.
My kingdom for a horse, indeed.
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On February 8th, 1940 in Massachusetts, a library clerk at Williams College let out a piercing scream: “The First Folio!,” she exclaimed, “It’s gone and this book—this cheap book—has been left in its place!”
A few months earlier, four men met in a bar in Albany to plan this clever switch. The leader of the gang, William John Kwiatkowski, had a long history of literary theft, starting at age eighteen when he plagiarized a short story from a national magazine and sold it to another. For this crime, he was put on probation for a year, only to go on to spend a year in prison for stealing valuable antique volumes from the Buffalo Historical Society. Upon his release, Kwiatkowski set his sights higher, and recruited his younger brother Eddie; his brother-in-law Joseph Biernat, a convicted bootlegger; and a man Biernat recommended for the titular role in the heist, Donald Lynch, a shoe clerk who earned a measly $20 a week. With excitement, these cast of characters worthy of a Shakespearean drama orchestrated a plan to steal the First Folio housed in Williams College’s Chapin Library.
The plan was simple: Lynch, the oldest of the bunch, would pose as a professor who needed to examine the First Folio for his research. The men decided on a costume that, still, fits the role: an ill-fitting suit, old-fashioned eyeglasses, and grey-powdered hair. For months, the men rehearsed their plan, visiting larger libraries and requesting to study their First Folios. During these rehearsals, Kwiatkowski got the measurements required to create a fake copy for the switch, deciding on a not-too-expensive folio edition of Goethe’s Reynald the Fox (1872). He then made it resemble a First Folio from the outside.
When the men eventually arrived at Williams College, Lynch—disguised as “Professor Sinclair E. Gillingham”—presented the head librarian with a forged letter from the President of Middlebury College, outlining Gillingham’s need to study the Folio copies housed in the library, which owned all four editions. The librarian was happy to facilitate “Gillingham’s” research and had the library clerk fetch the Folios, present them to Lynch in a secluded room, and leave him to his research. As planned, Lynch switched the books, placing the First Folio in his briefcase, and promptly left explaining he needed to fetch his wife, who served as his research assistant. The clerk returned to the room to put the Folios back in their cases, noticing that the First Folio was already in place, but it wasn’t until the end of the day when she picked up the boxes themselves that she noticed the one containing the First Folio felt light. The police were called and found out that there was, in fact, no such person as Professor Sinclair E. Gillingham—and that the letter from Middlebury College was forged. Even though Williams College offered a $1,000 award and did all they could to publicize the theft, for months no one had any idea where the First Folio was.
In the meantime, the Kwiatkowskis, who were waiting in a car outside, picked up Lynch and drove him to a bus stop so he could make his getaway. William Kwiatkowski took the briefcase and caught a bus back to Buffalo. As Rasmussen notes, “the absurdity of making a getaway by public bus did not deter the thieves.”
Then, on the last day of June, Lynch entered the police headquarters in Albany very drunk. He wanted to talk about the First Folio he stole and insisted that the police listen. At first the police thought he was out of his mind and put him in a cell overnight, but when he sobered up the next morning, he explained more coherently that his name was Lynch, and that he had posed as Professor Gillingham. Lynch was brought to back to Williams College, but at first the librarian did not recognize him. He had gained 30-40 pounds from drinking the past few months, as he was so worried about the entire situation. When Lynch related in detail what he had done at the Chapin Library, however, the librarian eventually agreed that he was the thief.
The FBI went to Buffalo, easily locating Biernat at his house and Eddie at the Kwiatkowski’s family home. They had to thoroughly search the house before they found William Kwiatkowski, however—he was hiding under a pile of laundry. A lot of rare books were found in the attic, but not the First Folio.
On September 12th, all the men involved were charged with violating the National Stolen Property Act. While Lynch confessed to his crime, the Kwiatkowskis claimed total innocence. As the court date approached, District Attorney Robert M. Hitchcock received a mysterious call from an informant, acting on William Kwiatkowski’s behalf, claiming the First Folio would be returned in perfect condition if they agreed to his terms: that the trial be held in Federal Court instead of state court, presumably because, as Rasmussen explains, “the federal law against transporting stolen property across state lines would carry a lesser sentence than the Massachusetts law against grand larceny.” Hitchcock agreed, but the First Folio was not delivered. Three days later, the informant called again, and Hitchcock threatened him: “You tell all of those fellows that I’m sending Lynch to Massachusetts to testify against the other three. When we get through with them they’ll have plenty of time to think things over.”
The Williams First Folio arrived at Hitchcock’s office three days later, undamaged. Lynch still testified, however, and all four men were found guilty in federal court in Rochester. William Kwiatkowski got the longest sentence—two years in prison.
Of note, when Hitchcock asked Lynch why he confessed, assuming it was because he didn’t get the money he was promised, Lynch responded, “I didn’t want Hitler to get the book.” This answer surprised and confused Hitchcock. Lynch then explained that he read a series of articles in Liberty magazine describing how Hitler and Goebbels sent agents to foreign countries to buy rare books. He worried that William Kwiatkowski planned to sell the First Folio to them. Lynch may have been a crook, but he wanted Hitchcock to know that he was a patriotic American, as well.
Although Hitler and the Nazis managed to steal plenty of priceless (and in many cases still missing) art, this First Folio was returned to the Chapin Library on October 21, 1940.
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Because this year is the 400th anniversary of the printing of the First Folio, it is worth reflecting on what it is about this coveted book that not only inspires dramatic heists, but scholars like Eric Rasmussen and his colleagues to spend over a decade locating and examining surviving copies. In the introduction to The Shakespeare Thefts, Rasmussen simply asserts that the First Folio is “one of the most significant books in the English language” and later that, while the team often “felt insane,” the process was “worth it” considering that, because of their research, “any First Folio stolen in the future will have to be sold on the black market.” But this answer is, still, unsatisfying. Perhaps Rasmussen takes for granted that we do not need more scholars waxing poetically about Shakespeare’s importance—but why the lust for copies of the First Folio, not just for their monetary value, but such that one would traipse across the globe to locate and study them?
When asked the question—why is the First Folio so important to you, if it is?—people we interviewed offered a myriad of answers. One scholar, Galen Bunting, who is a postdoctoral teaching fellow at Northeastern University, credited seeing a First Folio as the moment he decided he would major in English as opposed to botany: “seeing the First Folio felt like seeing something mythical and rare,” he recounted, “especially since without its printing as a definitive copy, we would not have some of Shakespeare’s most popular plays.” For Danielle Lucksted, a PhD student at Stony Brook University, “there is something about authenticity—to space, place, and time—that adds significance to any cultural artifact.”
Still, some lovers of Shakespeare don’t feel the same reverence for the First Folio, despite respecting other people’s obsession with it. Alan Stewart, a professor of Shakespeare at Columbia university, quipped that he doesn’t get the “fetish” of the First Folio, especially given “there are probably more copies of it in the world than there are of my last monograph.” While Tanya Pollard, a professor at Brooklyn College and the Graduate Center at CUNY, says she’d find better uses for a spare ten-million dollars, she understands that instinct to be “starstruck” by a First Folio, “the mystical attraction of Shakespeare’s Aura, as it were, and maybe the hope that somehow through osmosis it might seep into one’s fingertips and then imagination.” Bradley Irish, a professor at Arizona State University, said that despite reading, researching, and teaching Shakespeare for most of his life, he’s never been “captivated,” “allured” or “seduced” by the First Folio, despite being “glad that smart people devote their time to studying it.” An early modern scholar turned librarian told us that she doesn’t have strong feelings either way about the First Folio, but finds it “totemic rather than meaningful.” Like many of her colleagues in “library land,” books are more “quotidian than remarkable, and we are less prone to being wowed or otherwise moved by them.” Still, “the mythology of the material object is so strong,” she mused, and admitted that there is something “powerful about the oldness and magic” of the materiality of this “huge book”—“It’s moving, in its own way,” she relented.
It is worth meditating on the language of seduction and magic all these fans of Shakespeare attribute to the First Folio, no matter their personal feelings. As it stands, the First Folios have become a kind of “commodity fetish” in Western culture, to use Adam G. Hooks description. Zachary Lesser, similarly, describes this phenomenon as “foilolatry” (i.e. idolatry of folio). Take, for example, the story of Edwin Forrest’s copy, which he preserved in a glass case only for it to burn to ashes in a fire shortly after his death. The fragments of this First Folio are preserved in a sarcophagus in the rare book library at the University of Pennsylvania. Hooks writes of this incident, “Even in ashes…Shakespeare’s power is preserved.”
As Hooks points out, the Shakespeare fanatics who prize the Folios, in some ways, reflect Caliban’s obsession with Prospero’s books in The Tempest, a material representation of Prospero’s power—more important to Prospero than his dukedom. Caliban wants these books so he can destroy them, though, and we might follow his lead when it comes to making room for more diverse voices in our classrooms, theaters, and on our bookshelves. As David Sterling Brown, a professor at Trinity College and author of Shakespeare’s White Others, told me, the fetishization of “an artifact such as the First Folio…is inseparable from the idolization of Shakespeare’s white ‘genius,’” a phenomenon that “needs deconstructing and interrogating.” Still, Shakespeare himself imbibes material books with power and magic in The Tempest, so it follows his devoted fans would, too—and worship the book that brought him into being.
It is, perhaps, the impact Shakespeare’s plays have had on global culture—the power they hold over our language and narratives, for better and for worse—that the First Folio continues to seduce thieves, scholars, and Shakespeare fans alike. These reasons extend beyond the First Folio’s monetary value for many of us, inspiring feelings from overwhelm to awe. And these reasons are varied, unique, and particular, but they add up to an “Aura,” as Pollard puts it, a distinctive impression of Shakespeare’s character or aspect, one that some desperately want to be close to.
As Ben Jonson writes in his memorial poem prefacing the First Folio, Shakespeare “art alive still, while thy Booke doth live.”
