Issue 46, Spring 1969
I can hear him, in the next room but one, typing away. An answer to Pamela’s Special Delivery letter perhaps? Or lists of moneymaking projects. Possibly even a story, or a revised out line for Popcorn, in which he will refute the errors of our age.
Wishing to know his age, I went into the communicating room. “Jim?” I called out. “Jim?” Not in his office. I called downstairs. No reply. I returned here, to this desk, this typewriter. Now there are noises: his voice, the slow expository tone that he reserves for Dylan.
He is 23. He will be 24 in December. For his age be is fantastically successful. I envy bis success, though it isn’t a personal thing—I can envy almost anyone’s. I need constant reassurance. I crave your admiration. Is candor admirable? Is reticence even more admirable? I want to read this to someone.