One cool spring day in 1961 I found myself in New York again. It wasn’t something I’d planned – I’d hopped a train and somehow, there I was. Before I knew it I was standing at the same intersection of Manhattan where my wife had slipped her hand out of mine, leaving me with only a glove and my own suffocating boredom.
Looking at the people as they crossed the street, I expected to feel angry. God knows I’d been angry when I left Manhattan the last time. I searched my soul for that anger, that rage I’d struggled with for the first few years of my new life, and found only a strange sense of peace.
