In that case I didn’t leave embarrassed. I left feeling betrayed. What I’d wanted, much more than the book—which I would now rather die than read—was to be seen by this person. If only for a few seconds. I left the store determined that when and if it was ever my turn and I was the author seated at that table, I was going to engage people until they grew old, or at least thirsty. “Well, all right, then,” they’d say, looking past me for the nearest exit, “let me let you go.” I would see them until they wilted. And that’s pretty much how it goes. I generally start the conversation
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