Where are you, Edison, now that we need you?
He was an odd sort of hero. A millionaire who often lived like a bum, sleeping in a closet with his clothes onbecause he believed that taking them off promoted insomniaand spitting on the floor even in his cherished laboratories. A picturesque swearer who hired assistants whom George Bernard Shaw called "sensitive, cheerful and profane; liars, braggarts and hustlers." A would-be tycoon so crotchety and bullheaded that he could give little credit to the ideas of others; so inept in business matters that he lost...
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