She said to me, “The stuff you write—such mean stories.”
It was 1989. The woman was a college professor at Columbia University,
and what I remember most clearly was the gorgeous mohair suit
she was wearing as she spoke. I had been admiring that suit, watching
the way the nap of the fabric caught the light. It was not something I
would have worn, but I appreciated it. It was evidence that the professor
knew exactly who she was and what she had to be conŠdent about. I had
no such certainty. I had just Šnished my stint as a guest in her class, and
though I had enjoyed myself, it had been hard work.
It was 1989. The woman was a college professor at Columbia University,
and what I remember most clearly was the gorgeous mohair suit
she was wearing as she spoke. I had been admiring that suit, watching
the way the nap of the fabric caught the light. It was not something I
would have worn, but I appreciated it. It was evidence that the professor
knew exactly who she was and what she had to be conŠdent about. I had
no such certainty. I had just Šnished my stint as a guest in her class, and
though I had enjoyed myself, it had been hard work.