Only a few weeks ago, in the year in which I write, Carl T. Rowan died. Hearing the news, I felt the sadness one feels when a writer dies, a writer one claims as one's ownIt is a kind of possession, reading. Willing the Other to abide in your present.I remember Carl T. Rowan, in other words, as myself, as I was. Perhaps that is what one mourns.
Richard Rodriguez