“Poets, painters, musicians and so forth who loitered about St.-Germain in the early fifties were, to my knowledge, more or less impoverished. If any of them did have money, it was not mentioned. Christopher Logue, I had heard, was highly impoverished even by poetic standards. I wanted to invite Christopher to lunch, but there was a chance he might feel offended. I asked Max Steele, who knew him pretty well, what to do. Max suggested that he might criticize a manuscript in exchange for lunch. That sounded fine. Christopher was agreeable, so we met at some restaurant. I gave him a five-page story I had written. I thought he would skim through it, make a few comments, and we could get on with our lunch. Ah, no. He took the story apart paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence, phrase by phrase, word by word. I was appalled. It seemed to me that he talked for an hour, pointing out every mistake. Since that day I have, for better or worse, inspected each paragraph, sentence, phrase and word, perhaps fearful that Christopher might be looking over my shoulder. That was almost fifty years ago and I still am not sure if I feel indebted to him. He made things more difficult.” —Evan S. Connell, from the portfolio Postwar Paris: Chronicles of Literary Life.