I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and theirneighborhoods. For instance, there is a brownstone in the East Seventies where,during the early years of the war, I had my first New York apartment. It was oneroom crowded with attic furniture, a sofa and fat chairs upholstered in that itchy,particular red velvet that one associates with hot days on a tram. The walls werestucco, and a color rather like tobacco-spit. Everywhere, in the bathroom too, therewere prints of Roman ruins freckled brown with age. The single window looked outon a fire escape. Even so, my spirits heightened whenever I felt in my pocket thekey to this apartment; with all its gloom, it still was a place of my own, the first, andmy books were there, and jars of pencils to sharpen, everything I needed, so I felt,to become the writer I wanted to be.

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