Doesn’t matter if it’s a novel or a hundred-word short-short: no character that breathes. Jeff scrawls “Harlan” on a square of paper in block letters and pins it to the wall behind my headas I sit in the interviewee chair. I will not divide you from what remains of your triumvirate. I see that look upon your face, Anita, that American look.
But this letter—written by an anonymous provocateur whose name I’lllikely never unearth-was published at an early stage in my career with the clear intent to embarrass andridicule me. ost as though they have to readjust their thinking to comprehend that you are a human being, andnot some lower form of life. It was an infinitely fascinatinggame of ramifications, and Andy Sorokin knew she would play it with herself till he reappeared. They were waiting for them, to pay them homage.
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