I went into the street. Ravenswood was utterly empty. I walked about with something like a large stone in my belly. I often turned into Lawrence Avenue and stood on the bridge looking into the drainage canal. If I had been a dog I would have howled.
American writers are largely self-made.
But even by the folkloric standards of American literature, Bellow's remoteness from the centers of culture was extreme. I would have kissed the floor of a cafe. There were no cafes in Chicago. I never yet heard of a writer who brought his manuscripts into a tavern. It is more like a forge which has just been started up, and is beginning to burn red in an atmosphere darkened by coal-fumes.