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McCoy-

of a friend, in no particular context, "She always puts things down in the wrong place."

He could always spot talent, in his own field at least-- in writing the skeleton was all and the flesh nothing, which let in Kafka and kept out Joyce. (But is there ever really a place in the office of a great talent for a budding one?) Vick loved him too much to find his own direction. As for me, he said in exasperation near the end of his life, "You love my work more than me!" and I [[strikethrough]] had [[/strikethrough]] answered, "Aren't they the same?"