The Unknown Man Who Died Eating Library Paste in Goldfield Nevada, 1908

By 1908, Goldfield, Nevada was already beginning to slip from its brief moment of prosperity. Only a few years earlier it had been one of the richest gold mining towns in the United States, swollen almost overnight by prospectors, labourers, gamblers, shopkeepers, and those who followed boom towns wherever they appeared. By the time the story of the unknown man enters the record, Goldfield was still busy but increasingly unstable, its wealth unevenly distributed and its population highly transient.

It is within this context that the story places a destitute drifter roaming the streets near the town library. Like many Western boom towns, Goldfield attracted a large floating population of men without permanent work, housing, or family ties. These men often survived on casual labour, charity, or whatever could be scavenged from back alleys and rubbish heaps. Hunger was not uncommon, particularly for those who had missed the narrow window of opportunity when work was plentiful.

According to the local account, the man was searching through discarded refuse outside the library when he came across a jar of bookbinding paste. Such paste was a common sight in libraries and print shops of the period. It was used to repair book spines, mount labels, and reinforce bindings, and it was usually made in bulk rather than purchased ready made. While the base ingredients were often flour and water, preservatives and additives were routinely added to prevent mould and insect damage. Alum was one of the most common of these substances.

Alum had a slightly sweet, astringent taste, which may explain why the paste did not immediately repel someone desperate enough to try it. However, alum is toxic in high concentrations, particularly when ingested rather than used externally. In the quantities reportedly present in book paste at the time, it could cause severe gastrointestinal distress, organ failure, and death. If the man consumed a significant amount, the outcome described in the story is at least chemically plausible.

When his body was discovered, the account suggests that there was little ceremony attached to his burial. Pioneer Cemetery itself was not a landscaped or carefully managed burial ground. Like many early cemeteries in mining towns, it began as a practical solution to a constant problem: people died frequently, and someone had to bury them. Graves were shallow, markers were improvised, and records were inconsistent. Many burials were carried out by fellow miners, townspeople, or local authorities with minimal documentation.

The headstone attributed to the unknown man is striking for its bluntness. Rather than recording a name, birthplace, or age, it states only what was known or believed at the time. “UNKNOWN MAN DIED EATING LIBRARY PASTE JULY 14 1908.” The inscription reads less like a memorial and more like an entry in a ledger, factual and unsentimental. This was not unusual in places where death was common and anonymity was the norm rather than the exception.

Over time, the grave itself became part of Goldfield’s folklore. Visitors began to question whether the stone could genuinely date back to the early twentieth century. The red lettering in particular has drawn scepticism, as it appears brighter than one might expect after more than a hundred years of exposure to sun, wind, and dust. In response, locals have offered competing explanations. Some say that sympathetic visitors periodically repaint the letters, believing the man deserves to be remembered even if his name is lost. Others argue that the stone was installed later, perhaps as a deliberate curiosity designed to appeal to tourists interested in ghost towns and odd histories.

There is also the possibility that the story has been simplified over time. The man may have died from poisoning without paste being the sole cause, or the paste may have been blamed because it was found nearby. In an era with limited forensic investigation, cause of death was often inferred rather than established with certainty. Once a compelling explanation took hold, it could easily harden into accepted fact.

Whether entirely true, partially accurate, or embellished over decades of retelling, the grave continues to draw attention because it encapsulates several realities of life in early twentieth century mining towns. Poverty existed alongside wealth. Libraries, symbols of civic pride and education, sat within communities where people still starved. And death, particularly for those without family or status, was often recorded in the barest possible terms.

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