THE THIRTY-SIXTH PAGE

I probably harmonized with the couch, in my off-gray that would go with anything.

And curiously, my book probably harmonized with the wife’s spiritual malfunction of the moment. She apparently had tried every religion, therapy, cult, off-campus educational course, and pre-New Age endeavor of her time. The theme of my book had been so long neglected that it seemed fresh and original to her. Most of my readers had been bewildered by the old-fashioned themes ripped from the forlorn fabric of turn-of-the century life, a time when folks were folks and a man was a man for a that. She liked the spirit of the enterprise even though the story was neglectful of religious freedom, sexual variety, racial complexity and somehow managed to equate early American isolation during World War I with the protests against the “conflict” in Vietnam. After my last re-reading I thought the whole thing pretty funny; she found it wise.

She earlier had sent a note care of my publisher, who had probably let it lie about the office for many days before forwarding it. I quickly ripped it open, though I had received so little correspondence related to the book that I felt anything written about it was an invasion of privacy. The note first terrified me, but the terror turned to a strange exhilaration.