Beside the open window on the cemetery side, I drowsed as Preacher Lusk gripped his Bible like a bat snagged from the pentecostal gloom.
As Stanley Crouch likes to tell the tale, he and Philip Roth were having dinner in an up-scale New York City restaurant one evening shortly before their respective novels—The Human Stain in Roth’s case, Don’t the Moon Look Lonesome in...
