For a moment or two, I got to be Harold Bloom. “Andy, you understand about computers, don’t you?” says he. “Sit down in front of that computer and send an email for me.” Which is how I came to sign myself “Harold”. It was a message to a publisher asking him to send a copy of Bloom’s latest book, Possessed by Memory, a memoir mediated through literature, “to the magnificent British actress, Dame Janet Suzman”.
I’m visiting Harold Bloom, America’s venerable and semi-omniscient literary critic, at his beautiful old wooden house on a leafy street in New Haven, where – having just celebrated his 89th birthday – he is still teaching. Via Skype. He’s a bit too frail to be allowed on the Yale campus (they say the insurance won’t cover him).
“What was your high point then, looking back over your life?”
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