The Man in the Hayloft
I moved into Edward Carson's barn loft in the autumn of 1962 because I had nowhere else to go. My son had died—a car accident on Route 9, the kind of random, meaningless violence that makes philosophy seem both useless and the only thing that matters. His widow couldn't look at me without seeing him, so I packed my few books and my old reel-to-reel tape recorder and drove west until the suburbs...
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