A fine pre-holiday winter evening in Manhattan, as I make my way down town on the west side of Broadway through throngs of darkly-clad young people, out and about, strolling couples, groups of friends waiting in line for a scoop of gelato, wining and dining at leisure under heat lamps, laughing, smiling, freely chatting…when, in a peripheral glimpse to my right, I see herMartha — right arm raised into a glowing nimbus, eyes downcast, legs apart, holding an ecstatic poised pose above Jean-Michel Basquiat and Fern Mallis. There’s my book — I say, to myself — with a volatile mixture of revelation, thrill, and apprehension. I stop, stare and wonder, alone in singular authorship. I gaze through the entrance, imagine how many New Yorkers and others will actually go into the brightly-lit floor-to-ceiling bookscape and ask for Her by name...and then snap out of my reverie and into the night.

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