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ivicuee. ne iea us tnrougn most of the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. We vowed to wear the bottoms of our trousers rolled. I was suddenly inspired to launch into Yeat’s tale of Leda and the Swan:
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape... v
Whereupon I ran out of steam and headed for bed. Without missing a single iambic beat, McCarthy picked up the sonnet:
...her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless, breast upon his breast...
And so on to the burning roof and tower and Agamemnon dead.
After Nixon’s victory in 1968, McCarthy moved to Rappahannock County,Va., up in the Blue Ridge mountains. We became neighbors, so to speak. He and his beloved companion, the late Marya McLaughliii, entertained quietly. Gene and I wrote a book of political satire, “A Political Bestiary,” and drafted cartoonist Jeff MacNelly to illustrate it. The book never sold worth a tinker’s dam and was soon remaindered, but I cherish it as a reminder of big guy with a wry wit, a loving heart, and a lively mind. It’s hard to believe he’s dead.
James J. Kilpatrick authors a syndicated column “The Writer’s Art”
This was reprinted with his special permission.
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