There was room for only one writer in our house, our lives, our marital continent. It would have been the same if I’d said lawyer, doctor, professor, but writer had a different sound. Writing was serious stuff; it dealt with the verities of life and death and sex and sorrow. Writing was not about money, and those who confused the two were sellouts to crass commercialism, like Norman Mailer who, after a promising beginning, was headed straight for the primrose path that had swallowed so many golden boys, like Scotty Fitzgerald or, God help us, old man Hemingway. Or so we thought, in our callow youth, when we met at a small Southern California college and fell in love, or rather I fell in love, with a writer born.
KeywordsPinot Noir Hard Cover American Culture North North American Literature Sensual Satisfaction
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