If we misremembered, they would denounce us before God at those golden gates.īut Dr. They were empty-eyed faces carved into cathedral stone, looking down on us to make sure we knew their names. The authors, if I had imagined them, were like statues in some museum, old cracked marble missing limbs, dust piled atop their heads. In college, I read Faulkner, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy and all the other writers infamous among college students everywhere. When my English Literature professor, Marilyn McEntyre, told us Hemingway would write all day in small Parisian cafes and, afterward, take his lunch to the Musée du Luxembourg where he would look at Cezannes, it transformed how I looked at authors - and writing, for that matter - forever.
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