"... Late at night, staring out at the rooftop skyline of the magazine offices at 666 Broadway—Lewis Lapham's magazine— I felt like I could catch a glimmer of the romantic previous world, the world of cluttered bookshelves and small offices and sincere, tweedy editor-intellectuals—Malcolm Cowley's world, Horace Greeley's world. It was in the process of disappearing as I arrived, but a little bit of it was still there. What did I want exactly? To become a real writer, a real literary person. I wanted to get out of the inbred, low-expectations punk-zine world and transition into the high-stakes, high-expectations world of capital-M Magazines and real books. I made literary zines, zines that people liked—strangers wrote me endless handwritten letters, spilling their guts. But it wasn't enough. I wanted more. ..."
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