I was just coming off a long and feverish James Purdy binge in 1986 when his latest book, In the Hollow of His Hand, was published. It seemed the ideal opportunity to catch up with one of America’s most eccentric and compulsive writers–the subject of a cult that kept his name alive through more than twenty mostly un-reviewed novels, short-story collections, and plays. We met in his disordered Brooklyn Heights apartment one afternoon and, though he was reluctant to examine his own processes in any detail, he entertained me like a retired professor who still keeps office hours. He was a frail 72 when we spoke, but he was flintier than he appeared. He died in 2009, at 94. The conversation that follows has been edited–and picks up just as we’re settling down to talk.
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