THE THIRTY-THIRD PAGE

The moving fingers having writ, I returned to the old professional reading habits that had provided my livelihood for so many years. The manuscript pages I faced were not blank, demanding my own fresh arrangement of words but the work of another dreamer confronting the devil; let the poor son of a bitch learn his lesson as once did I.

Perhaps I had been chastened by my own publishing experience because I was told that my reports were more generous, nay, kind.

The newfound generosity of spirit in my freelance readings got me more work. More work meant more visits to publishers’ offices and more free books picked up along the rounds.

In the history of New York City, I may have been noted as one of those denizens described early-on as a bag person. Lucky he who had stopped smoking; I could not have managed the burning stick in the mouth while I carried bags of manuscripts and books in both hands.

The book collection, hereinafter deemed the home library, flourished. My sixty-carton limit had long ago been exceeded. The home librarian knows he is in trouble when one wall contains little more than Abe`/Abbey to Eliot/Eliott and another Theroux/Theroux/Theroux to Zukovsky. Books piled on the floor do not furnish a room.