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Robert Caro Relaxes by Listening to People Drum in Central Park

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3. My Typewriter Ribbons Harder and harder to get. And I like cotton ribbons, not the customary nylon, very heavily inked. That way, the words you’re typing are bolder and blacker. While you’ve typed the identical page over again and again, the words stop having an impact, and having them daring and black helps.

4. My Shack Within the woods behind my house on Long Island — possibly 70 yards in — is a 15 by 20 foot garden shed with a high pointed roof. It sits on a foundation of cinder blocks. That’s where I write in the summertime. The partitions and ceiling are bare unpainted wood, and there’s nothing within the shed but my desk, a filing cabinet, two little bookshelves, an air-conditioner, and, in fact, nailed to at least one wall, a corkboard. I purchased it 23 years ago. After we arrive at the home at the start of every summer, I run over to the shack to see if there was a leak within the roof throughout the winter, and there never has. Unless there’s a special reason, I don’t bring my cellphone there. I pin the pages of my outline to the corkboard, and I’m able to go. It’s my favorite place on earth.

5. The Latest York Giants Despite every part.

6. The Latest York Knicks Despite every part.

7. Zoom Sessions With Horace Mann Classmates For some years we did it in person, in a restaurant, but now considered one of us has moved to a different city, so we Zoom. We do it every 4 or five weeks. We’ve known one another since we were 11 or 12. We’re older now.

8. My First Edition of Trollope My publisher, Sonny Mehta, gave this to me as a present to have a good time the occasion of my having been awarded a Pulitzer Prize. It’s a set of Trollope’s novels called the “Chronicles of Barsetshire.” I really like Trollope and particularly those novels, as Sonny knew, and this set is the primary collected edition of those works, published in 1887.

9. My Sure Volumes of the Captain Hornblower Series After I was a boy, I used to be within the spell of those seven books. I might take them out of the general public library branch at Broadway and 99th Street and sit down on the steps outside and begin reading; I couldn’t wait until I got home. One 12 months, Ina got me the proper present. She had them sure in a naval blue binding with anchors and naval devices in gold on the spines. Each time I look at my bookshelf and see them, I start remembering favorite scenes, sometimes finding to my surprise that I’m reciting the scene, without having opened the book.

10. Sundays in Central Park Within the afternoons, after work, Ina and I walk in on the 69th Street entrance. Pedaling or jogging along the drive are human beings of each race and color. To the appropriate is the Sheep Meadow, an unlimited space, really: 15 acres. And on summer Sundays, it looks as if every square foot of those acres comprises people — families, touch footballers, picnickers, etc., etc. To the left are people in immaculate white outfits. English lawn bowlers. Keep going: roller skaters gyrating gracefully or wildly to disco music. Keep going: seated on a bench, a line of drummers, generally 10 or 11 of them. Their drumming almost hypnotizes me; I can sit there for an hour listening to them. One way or the other it drums the strain from writing right out of me.

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