Don's imagination had spent some time living alongside the arts of painting, architecture, philosophy, music. Then he added a journalistic interest in the day—I mean the immediate morning-to-night American day. His language, invented along a syntactical line between Texas and New York. The fact is, he could have been only clever, and he was clever, but his intelligence ran harder and deeper than his wit. He was in his life and work a citizen. That means he paid attention to and argued the life of his street, his city (New York or Houston), his country. He never played a game of literary personalities. If he organized an event, a reading—as he did, for instance, at the 1986 PEN Conference, he stood back, had others present their work. He wasn't the least bit modest, he was anxious, he was courteous. He was always worried in the very act of hilarious opposition. There was sadness in our lightest conversations, across that literature of his. We laugh, but the poem in the prose is dark.

If you were a female person, it's perfectly true that he'd often meet you with a sort of attentive bossiness, which is the Southern male's ingrained behavior with women. It was really an awful pain in the neck. A regional problem and serious.

He was, according to students, an extraordinary teacher, rigorous, picky, not mean—but a teaser. Sometimes. “What did he really mean by that?” a student whispered to me once when I visited his class. “You can write anything you want but you may not mention the weather,” he told his classes at City College in New York and at the University of Houston. The weather, the very geography of platitude. Still, he knew about those easy clichés. He knew their ancient usefulness and perseverance. He grabbed them, gave them a good half turn to laugh a social truth into a sentence—he was certainly a sentence maker.

He was my neighbor and a true friend. This kind of friend. One day in 1973 he crossed the street to talk to me on my stoop. “Grace,” he said, “you now have enough stories for a book.” (My last book had been published in 1959.) “Are you sure? I kind of doubt it,” I said. “No, you do—go on upstairs and see what you can find in your files—I know I'm right.” I spent a week or so extr