I worry about categories. Tell the sales force it’s Moby-Dick in Manhattan

“The amount of money publishers were willing to pay him for subsequent books became less and less until, when Stewart knew him, he was reduced to living in a tiny New York apartment creating several meals out of a few pieces of chicken. In 1992 he earned $25,000 from his writing. Helping out in a New York City soup kitchen, Wilcox was complimented on the empathy he had shown its patrons and replied: “I’m only a check or two from being in the line myself.”

Posted March 5, 2001

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