Word: whose
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...comportment came out of reading literature. I found my real world, and my real friends, in books." At ten, "much too early," he read Maxim Gorky; by twelve, he was devouring Crime and Punishment; from France, there were heavy doses of Jules Verne, Emile Zola and Anatole France, "whose boulevardier quality was amazing...
...biggest impression was made by an autobiographical sketch of Gorky's. It "was an excellent metaphor for how I felt. One must consider the idea of the artist as orphan, an orphaned prodigy, whose parents find him some where?the bulrushes, perhaps. To pretend to be an orphan, alone, is a form of narcissism. I suppose all children have this disgusting form of self-pity; but more so the artist, who is Robinson Crusoe. He must invent his stories, his pleasures; he succeeds in reconstructing a parody of civilization from scratch. He makes himself by education, by survival, by constantly...
...favorite occupations: drawing and traveling, the one nourishing the other. He did not work en route, which is one reason why Steinberg's drawings of places all look equally exotic: their abnormality is a refraction of memory, whether of Paris, Los Angeles, Istanbul, Tashkent, Palermo or Samarkand (whose telephone directory, stolen by him in 1956 and listing 100 subscribers, is one of Steinberg's more cherished souvenirs). Provoked by a "geographical snobbism," he and his wife, the artist Hedda Sterne?they were married in 1944 and fondly separated without divorcing 16 years later?became epicures of travel...
...successful crime writer, mostly for Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine. He now turns out screeds under his own name, which is German for nut tree, as well as Alberto Avellano and A.F. Oreshnik, which have similar meanings in, respectively, Spanish and Russian. E. Richard Johnson is another con, whose fine first novel, Silver Street, won a Mystery Writers of America Edgar award in 1968. Johnson, alas, is back in the slammer: a slight case of armed robbery...
...depths of Manhattan to the higher reaches of Washington, D.C., and Moscow, with a side trip to the underside of Rome. Its main sleuths, a burnt-out CIA agent and a doughty Immigration official, set out separately to solve the mystery of the disappearance of a minor Russian poet whose scattered dactyls are the clues to a major East-West confrontation. A masterpiece of bamboozlement, Catch Me is a kind of catch-22 between rival and riven U.S. agencies, written in a style that ranges from hardest-boiled yegg to soufflé, with nothing poached...