My personal memory of Marilyn, far afield from Eunice Murray's terrible discovery, is splendid and dates back to the mid-1950s when I was barely a teenager and lived in the Belnord, the apartment building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

Although I was born in New York, grew up in New York and now live in New York, it was my first visit to Randall's Island in Manhattan -- just to see the inaugural Frieze Art Fair.

New York City lags behind its game-loving peers in the heartland and down south, where dishes like turtle stew make amphibious game into a delicacy.

I cornered Heller after class. An expression of fear widened his eyes after I insisted on accompanying him on the train back to Manhattan to interview him.

In 1967, my life turned a sharp corner. I impulsively decided to audit Heller's playwriting seminar at Yale. His mordant new novel, Catch-22, was suddenly as relevant as Bob Dylan, whose music I would learn he loved.