![]() ![]() Smell of the fruit stands on Eighth Avenue on a hot August afternoon the deeply shadowed midtown canyon looking up Broadway from Macy's the recollected shock of happening on a single maple turned scarlet on an October Saturday, Each conjured intense, highly sensuous memories: the spangled magnificence of the New York skyline at Christmas, the city dazzling, as if deliberately bedecked for the season the ripe, fetid That had punctuated my New Jersey childhood. Remembering those companionable journeys, I recalled countless other Hudson River crossings ![]() My dad and I had used the summer we commuted together into "the city." I was twenty then and working at TWA as a reservations agent. My memories were triggered by the train's slow progress past the park-and-ride lot What I was thinking about, I recall, was New York itself. Whatever the cause, I was not thinking about my impending appointment at the Book-of-the-Month Club as the 7:32 Amtrak commuter from Philadelphia crawledĪcross the marshy plain outside Newark on its journey into New York's Penn Station. Or the weight of layered memories evoked by the familiar geography. The Book-of-the-Month Club, Literary Taste, and Middle-Class Desire ![]()
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