Right after 9/11, the obituaries started to appear: Irony, the reports said, was dead. Either that or in really bad condition.
The news of Saul Bellow's death sent me to the bookshelves, in search of (among other things) a set of interviews about his life and work that he gave 15 years ago. His answers were eloquent and cranky, occasionally at the same time; and taken all together, they form a major exhibit in what is now, for better or worse, the Saul Bellow Memorial Wing of my own literary education.
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