Nonfiction | March 01, 2000

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I took a course in Modern American literature in 1975, taught by a man named Walter Slatoff. I dragged along four friends who had little interest in literature but indulged me for some reason that I forget. Among them was the young man who would become my husband, who remembers how Slatoff was about to read an exercept from my paper in the last moments of his final lecture but ran out of time.

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