abducted and murdered in New York City, March 1980
She was not a document. She was not a number or a photograph. Not an abstract idea or a madman’s fantasy. She was flesh and blood.
—Susan Griffin, Pornography and Silence:
Culture’s Revenge Against Nature, 1981
***
In the summer of 1979 a young writer moves to midtown New York, city of dreams. With 8 months of drinking in those electric, grimy-grand avenues, he breaks into freelance work for educational textbook publishers—but, come midwinter, he’s found the city both wildly alive and lonely.
Early Monday February 11th, 1980: he walks up Third Avenue to his latest gig at Macmillan Publishing, where a raucous community of creative colleagues clack away on typewriters, sustaining the dreams they’re really after. The standard sterility of American textbooks ignites subversion in their constant banter: his morning’s plan is to share out copies of an historical romance parody, “Love’s Deep Disturbance.” And there alone before him, working the xerox-machines, is Eve.
Her eyes are deep brown with an impish twinkle, her big ready smile tells the word-drunk writer her name, and he’s a goner. Eve: meaning Life, primeval, innocent and wayward, there seems no more beautiful name for a woman and a Muse. From their first lunch onward, the cosmos between them goes Click.
(To be continued)