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In the Sixties, Carl Schinasi ran away from home. He went to his friend Howard's, though he never saw Howard--instead he met the smell of Mrs. Graham The White Ghost.
I answer an ad for an agent looking for “young Mediterranean-types, long hair preferred.” His office is off Times Square.
The writer asks: how should a writer look at literary events? (IS THAT A PUN?)
When I decided to move to the United States for college, I traded my relatively calm and peaceful life in a decidedly “dangerous” country for a different, perhaps more potent danger that haunted me day and night: being a target because of the color of my skin.
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