My father was a man who believed history repeated itself. Not in the large ways, of nations and of wars, but in the smaller ways of families. He was a religious man

Story opens, Mr. Redding is coughing in a cafe by the Yocona River, really whamming it out between his knees. He’s got on penny loafers with pennies in them, yellow socks,

I was slapped and hurried along in the private applause of birth—I think I remember this. Well, I imagine it anyway—the blind boy’s rose-and-milk-and-gray-walled (and salty)

In the photograph, my mouth is slightly open. I am talking to the man sitting next to me. The man is the writer, Alberto Moravia. Next to him, there is a woman. She is smiling at the camera, I can’t think of her

The rue Lapin slinks like a pickpocket behind the back of the Théâtre Larache, joining the boulevard Denfert-Rocherau at the rue Saint-Anne. It is a narrow street, without distinction or interest

“Listen,” Trudy Kay had Ettie Savage on the telephone and she was breathing somewhat more forcefully than normal. “About your living room. You’ll remember I was talking to you the other day. I want you to know

The Dakemans were untidy degenerates, including their children and pets, according to Mom. “Some people make their pets and children as trashy as they are,” she said, her voice hushed discreetly.

In the mornings Alexei Petrovich’s Mama yawns loud and long: hurrah, onward, a new morning gushes in through the window; the cactuses shine, the curtains quiver; the gates of the nighttime realm

From my father I learned astrology and medicine. Aged sixteen I entered the university at Basel but went away dissatisfied. I traveled to Würzburg yet there again I could not find what I wanted,

EDITOR’S NOTE. From abundant internal evidence it seems clear that the text printed below is the index to the unpublished and perhaps suppressed autobiography of a man who may well have