Since its hardcover publication in August of 1995, Buffett has appeared on the Wall Street Journal, New York Times, San Francisco Chronicle, Los Angeles Times, Seattle Times, Newsday and Business Week bestseller lists. Starting from scratch, simply by picking stocks and companies for investment, Warren Buffett amassed one of the epochal fortunes of the twentieth century—an astounding net worth of $10 billion, and counting. His awesome investment record has made him a cult figure popularly known for his seeming contradictions: a billionaire who has a modest lifestyle, a phenomenally successful investor who eschews the revolving-door trading of modern Wall Street, a brilliant dealmaker who cultivates a homespun aura. Journalist Roger Lowenstein draws on three years of unprecedented access to Buffett’s family, friends, and colleagues to provide the first definitive, inside account of the life and career of this American original. Buffett  explains Buffett’s investment strategy—a long-term philosophy grounded in buying stock in companies that are undervalued on the market and hanging on until their worth invariably surfaces—and shows how it is a reflection of his inner self. "Only in America. The bonus of this fine, fine biography is that it could turn you into an investor, if you're not one already; or a better one, if you are. Lowenstein has done a great job with a great subject."--Andrew Tobias "Mr. Lowenstein has done a masterly job."-- The New York Times Book Review Roger Lowenstein , author of the bestselling Buffett: The Making of an American Capitalist , reported for The Wall Street Journal  for more than a decade, and wrote the Journal 's stock market column, Heard on the Street, from 1989 to 1991 and the Intrinsic Value column from 1995 to 1997. He now writes a column in Smart Money  magazine, and has written for the New York Times  and The New Republic , among other publications. Lowenstein has three children and lives in Westfield, New Jersey. Chapter 1   OMAHA   Like a diamond set in emerald, gracing the west bank of the Missouri River, lies Omaha, the wonder city of the West and marvel of enterprise, ability, and progressiveness. TELEPHONE COMPANY PROMOTION, 1900     Almost from the day that Dr. Pollard awakened him to the world, six pounds strong and five weeks early, Warren Buffett had a thirst for numbers. As a boy, he and his friend Bob Russell would pass an afternoon on the Russells’ front porch, which overlooked a busy intersection, recording the license-plate numbers of passing cars. When the sky darkened, they would go inside and spread open the Omaha World-Herald, counting how often each letter appeared and filling entire scrapbooks with progressions of numbers, as though they held the key to some Euclidean riddle. Often, Russell would reach for the almanac and read out a list of cities. One by one, Warren would spit back the populations. “I’d say a city, he’d hit it on the nose,” Russell would recall, half a century later. “I might say, ‘Davenport, Iowa; Topeka, Kansas; Akron, Ohio.’ If I gave him ten cities, he’d hit every one.” Baseball scores, horse-racing odds—every numeral was fodder for that precocious memory. Combed, scrubbed, and stuffed into a pew of Dundee Presbyterian Church, Warren would pass the time on Sundays calculating the life spans of ecclesiastical composers. He would stand in the living room with a paddle and ball, counting, counting by the hour. He would play Monopoly for what seemed forever—counting his imagined riches.   Blue-eyed, with a fair complexion and pink cheeks, Warren was intrigued not merely with numbers, but with money. His first possession was a nickel-coated money changer, given to him by his Aunt Alice at Christmas and thereafter proudly strapped to his belt. When he was five, he set up a gum stand on his family’s sidewalk and sold Chiclets to passersby. After that, he sold lemonade—not on the Buffetts’ quiet street, but in front of the Russells’ house, where the traffic was heavier.   At nine, Warren and “Russ” would count the bottle caps from the soda machine at the gas station across from the Russells’ house. This was not idle counting, but a primitive market survey. How many Orange Crush caps? How many Cokes and root beers? The boys would cart the caps in a wagon and store them in Warren’s basement, piles of them. The idea was, which brand had the highest sales? Which was the best business?   At an age when few children knew what a business was, Warren would get rolls of ticker tape from his stockbroker father, set them on the floor, and decipher the ticker symbols from his father’s Standard & Poor’s. He would search the local golf course for used but marketable golf balls. He would go to Ak-Sar-Ben* racetrack and scour the saw-dusted floors, turning over torn and discarded stubs and often finding a winning ticket that had been erroneously thrown away. In the sweltering Nebraska summers, Warren and Russ would car