I had been looking forward to hearing Irving Howe’s speech all week. At last April’s Socialist Scholar’s Conference he was part of a closing panel; I knew his address would be short and probably without notes—but the chance to hear him speak was a small treasure.
He walked in looking very pale and, as it always seemed, dressed too warmly for such a sunny spring day. I knew that, like me, others present were wondering whether to say hello. There were times when approaching Irving felt a little like what Michael Harrington described when he wrote of his...
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