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by John Knowles
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I’ve been thinking lately about adulthood. When it begins, what expectations we might reasonably have of those just entering through its gates, and how we represent it in our fiction.
When the Flower Children finished sitting in and singing mean songs about the president, most cut their hair and found jobs. But not Raoul Duke.
My magnificent agent died a few days ago. Her name was Emilie Jacobson, but her colleagues called her Emmy. She found me in a slush pile.