214
PARTISAN REVIEW
for me about being published in
Partisan Review
(a number of times
since that first chapter) is that it is not a magazine some members of my
family are likely to read.
About three years ago, over at Jenny Greenberg's apartment, Edith
came over and said William would like to see me. Would my wife
Kristina and I come to dinner? Chinese? I had not seen William since the
memorial for Clement Greenberg in
1994,
and then briefly, and at that
time he had looked frail but not terribly unwell. I was uneasy about see–
ing William in his home, for dinner, no less. What could I talk about? I
felt like a kid. I was scared. I had begun reading
Partisan Review
in my
teens and now I was to have dinner with a man whose magazine had
helped lead me out of what felt at the time like a culturally primitive
shtetl
in Brooklyn. Edith gave Kristina and me something to drink and
we waited for William to appear. I could hear him coughing as he came
towards us, in a wheelchair, moved by a woman I took to be a private
nurse. She helped William onto a chair next to me. He looked frus–
trated, irritated. How to describe his appearance? Pale, gaunt, a shock
of white hair, eyes dark and brooding, defiant, a modero-day prophet
without a beard. We shook hands. He said I looked well. I think he
already knew I'd been operated on for lung cancer. He wanted details.
Here we were, two old men, I in my late seventies, he approaching his
ninety-second year. "Ah, you're a kid," he said.
It
was a lovely evening. I was struck by the man's liveliness, his
curiosity, his sharp observations about the politics of the day, the books
he was reading-a reader came several times a week-and his wit,
which could be caustic when it came to some of the people he had asso–
ciated with, yet none of it mean-spirited. When he spoke of Delmore
Schwartz, it was with tenderness .
Our visit was a delight. Edith and William, wonderful hosts, made it
very easy for me. Alas, his health had dramatically declined since I had
last seen him.
It
was clearly difficult for him to speak; when he did, his
voice was hoarse. There were a number of these visits since then and they
were also wonderful. The traditional Chinese takeout was terrific, even
better than what we have on Third Ave.nue downtown. William, old and
sick, had maintained a sense of wonder, curiosity, and strongly felt opin–
ions delivered with a nod, a wave of hand, and two or three words. This
was a man who knew everything, had seen everything, had known every–
one. He'd ask me, "What do you think of so-and-so?" "What do you
think of his writing?" "Her writing?" "His art?" "Her art?" William was
someone to whom you told the truth. You had to. I would say,
"It
stinks." And William, as often as not, would say, "I agree."
