Koch and Fiction

Lying on my chest I leaned on my son's arms as he flips the book before us: a Kenneth Koch collection of fiction. I scan a little and flip it fast, to Perry's delight. I told him to kiss Kenneth Koch's portrait at the back, which he did, his chubby cheeks smothering the page, now wet with what a parent considers as a child's kiss.

My dream last night (I rarely dream these days) doesn't have anything to do with Koch: two booksellers, one of them Matazlan (not Mazatlan), Latin American, asked me if I can predict, among his titles, which books are going to die. In the dream I reasoned that no book will die, there will be a great revival of print...

I've said it to a friend recently: how having a son makes me feel accomplished, as if I've made one of my purposes in life (if there really is such). It's an assurance that someone else will follow suit, and will once and for all do the right thing.