I was there with a book dealer to survey the ruins. The damage to my books varied from room to room. The piano room was worst hit. I lost most of the classic English poetry I had in 19th century hardcovers and modern paperbacks. Keats survived, but Pope and Milton and a shitload of classics in translation, a 8 vol set of Shakespeare's sources died the death. Along with some unlamentedstuff: a whole set of Oiuda I would never have read.
I found the gold watch and chain I'd thought were lost, packed four boxes with papers, lots of stillborn silt from the years gone by which came back to the city (some of them antedating the house in the country). And the dealer went off with at least as much, mostly books, but one real goodie: my proposal to Disney, and contract with them, for King of the Kalhari. Anyone reading will have no doubt that I am the true author of The Lion King. Shafted by a Hollywood agent and by Disney working in cahoots. To have been robbed of millions of dollars and to have nothing to show for it but sour grapes. But at least there will now be a record of the crime in someone's archive somewhere.