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.