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%u00a9Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights ReservedHOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS BOOK252 Jack Fritscher%u201cAll of it.%u201d%u201cHave you read Alinsky%u2019s manifesto, Rules for Radicals?%u201d%u201cI proofed the galleys.%u201d%u201cLiar.%u201d An hour later, too eager, I called her from the elevated station near Louisa%u2019s.%u201cCan I see you?%u201d%u201cTuesday at eight.%u201d%u201cShall I bring my manuscript?%u201d%u201cDown, boy,%u201d she said.%u201cGo get her,%u201d Joe said.Louisa laughed. %u201cYou%u2019re so sophisticated. Certainly, I did not see the fifth of Southern Comfort stashed under your bed, and your handwriting is terrible.%u201dThe thought of Louisa trying to decipher my yellow legal pads was a comedy compared to Rector Karg sniffing through my shoe box of papers word by word. Something had been stolen from me. Some secrets had not been revealed. I had escaped from Misery, a missing boy, gone in the middle of the night, and no one, no priest, no rector ever even called my parents to report me missing, or to see if I arrived home in one piece. %u201cAaawgh,%u201d Joe said, %u201cwe all waste our youth some way.%u201d%u201cSo us three got something in common,%u201d Louisa said.%u201cAaawgh, Queenie,%u201d Joe said. In the Buncheks%u2019 attic, I stood naked, couldn%u2019t keep my clothes on, transfixed in the mirror by who%u2019s that? Naked, I rose, untouched. Spring blew in the window. I threw myself into my bed, tossing, planning my first literary engagement with Jocelyn, whom I thought of as my editor, Jocelyn.%u201cI want to introduce you,%u201d she had offered, %u201cto LeRoi Jones. I want to listen to you reading out loud, %u2018An Agony. As Now.%u2019%u201dIn my Journal, I wrote the declarative sentence Jocelyn had told me was the declarative truth of the declarative Virginia Woolf: %u201cWhat secrets men know are revealed through women.%u201dI was determined to be like other men, and learn the secrets I had always missed in all the other inner circles of boys.Tuesday I stood, early outside her address, her salon, her apartment, her two rooms, for fifteen minutes, in the dark, under the lamplight, actually lit by the bright light of the Communist bookstore on the first floor of her building, looking up through the curtains of her window, four floors up, watching her arranging flowers she had bought herself. %u201cI