We’re reading an old interview with Tom Wolfe in the Paris Review in which the interviewer asks Wolfe how he became interested in writing. Good interview. There’s also another article written by Wolfe on New Journalism. In any event, it got us thinking and here is an anecdote we find amusing, and true.
When we were in our pre-teens, my mother would call my sister, brother and I for supper. We’d come from someplace in the house, pass through the living room, where Dad, home from work, sat reading the evening paper, through the dining room (reserved for holiday dining), through the kitchen and past the table set for supper, into the back hall and down the cellar stairs.
At the foot of the stairs was a black lacquered table, probably four feet by three and on it were stacks and stacks of comic books. The three of us would pick through the piles looking for one we had not read in a while, my mother would call down and we’d traipse back up to the kitchen, take our seats and commence reading our selection as we ate supper.
I wish we’d kept them,