I remember the first time I read Saramago. García Márquez. Saul Bellow. John Updike. Robbe-Grillet. All dead now. They weren’t when I read them for the first time. I used to feel envious of people who were alive when, say, Mann or Joyce or Hemingway were alive. And yet, there I was, and of course it didn’t mean a thing.
-2 April 2015
This post is part of the I Remember series.
