I remember the musty scent and presence of my father’s writing accoutrements in the cramped apartment at the top of MacDougal Street: yellow foolscap, messy typewriter ribbons, wheel eraser with its pert green whisk-skirt. And the obligatory cup of coffee and cigarettes close by. I was anxious to replicate this exotic “scene,” which carried associations of solitude, daydreaming (one looked askance, preoccupied, when considering what to say), and daily work ritual.
Interesting to see my last name mentioned in this wonderful story!
Amazing history, and well told.