Requiem for a Heavyweight

He was a voice in the wilderness, a lion among cheese-nibbling gallery mice, a firm and gristly presence in a world of limp phantoms. One of his reviews was so pugnacious that a fist emerged from the artist’s copy of Time and bloodied his nose while he was reading it on the subway, an event attested by witnesses. “He was a man’s man,” recalls an acquaintance, “with none of the latent homosexuality which that phrase is often taken to imply, an implication he would personally resent by grasping the coat-lapel of the implicator and pushing him with force against the handiest and most abrasive architectural feature… excuse me, I need to go and lie down.”

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