Broyard’s Greenwich Village memoir, Kafka was the Rage, makes me deeply nostalgic for my first “feelings” about New York.
It revives memories of my own time, of people and situations thought lost, and restores to me a great warmth I only seem to get now when New York is decked out for the holidays.
Too late to thank Anatole in person and pick his brain for more of those small details that unlock my own repository of observations which become the tableware and serving pieces of the stories I would write.