"Since Dhalgren’s publishing history still elicits minimal interest, let me try to straighten some of it out. Fred, you came to see us in our three-room second-floor Paddington Street flat in London, twice, once when we weren’t in and our upstairs neighbor was baby-sitting for not-quite-year-old Iva; then you came back, a second time, when Marilyn and I were both there. That’s when I told you about Dhalgren—and probably exaggerated the number of times and places it had been submitted. ... Undoubtedly this is the story I told Fred the evening he dropped in unexpectedly to say hello (along with the tale of Iva’s befuddled citizenship problems), as we sat chatting for an hour or so with my infant daughter’s blue- quilted baby basket on the rug between our feet, in front of the electric fire. Fred can be wonderfully warm hearted, and I think he took to the young expatriate couple ... That’s the actual story. But I can see the places misunderstandings might have crept in."
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