Ah, Harry, you were unforgettable. And youwere curmudgeonely until the end. The pain an torments you endured mean plenty to even those disaffiliated former students, like myself, whose career you helped to propel.
But the pain, oh Harry, you always captured the pain. And ironically, that pain has helped me and mine understand the joy in life.
And I only lament that I never had the chance to share that, through my kids, with you.
You moved me to Gainesville by your words. That is saying something. And your love of the heart spurs me on still. Best to Byron and Sally. Indeed, this is complicated.
Upon sendng the manuscript of "THe Knockout Artist" to The U. of Georgia, you were, predictably, irritated and curt. And that I never lost your focus as narrator and reader, I will forever treasure.
What folks who've never done this won't get is the skill and craft to which you were ever dedicated, despite the rest.
I mourn your loos, bless your body of work, and pray some context gets people like me again within you love of narrative and irony.
I fear too much the ridicule our times may offer your work. In it I bet a serious portion of my own life, became close to you, and now must try to make amends for a relationship that never met closure--but how well you novels reflect that. But the pain, oh