So I get this phone call from Ellie, who’s gotten a call from Jim, who says his friend, a writer, is looking for an assistant. Ellie asks, “Do you think you’d be interested in working for Susan Sontag?”
I’d recently had a bad experience working for a man whose idea of “assistant” was someone to pick up his dry cleaning, so my enthusiasm for this type of job wasn’t at its peak. But I had just moved to New York and was still trying to figure out, at thirty-six, what I wanted to be when I grew up.
“Don’t know, but it should be interesting to meet her.”
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