These grand figures were annoying, of course, to anyone under twenty-five in that post-sixties period, but I rather liked them, too.
NEWYORKER: Hand on the Shoulder
His author photograph, identical on twenty years of jackets and press clippings until it stopped circulating at all, arrested him somewhere in the mid-sixties, turtlenecked, holding a cocktail glass forever.
NEWYORKER: The King of Sentences
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