Joe Wood had a voice as deep as a doublebass, and he spoke as he wrote: low, slowly, softly. He forced you to listen attentively to each of his words, pausing gravely as if to prepare you for the next one. When I first met Joe, I thought this was an affectation. Before long, however, I realized it was a style, the outward mark of a sensibility, artful but true. And with this style, Joe had a look, one that gave him away instantly. The big, bookish glasses. The Malcolm X cap, worn with urbane nonchalance. The knapsack filled to capacity with literature. The bemused, vaguely world-weary expression that sometimes broke into a wide, astonished smile.
I am trying to remember these details because we are not likely to see them—him—a...
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