I wrote him wildly enthusiastic letters, soliciting work for Montemora, offering him as much space as he liked in the magazine; the manuscripts he sent in reply always contained a self-addressed stamped envelope. Yet this invisible man, who published his own books for 50 years, who never left the country, who sat in Hollywood watching the flies on his desk, whose poetry is filled with people but no friends, who rarely mentioned in print his life after late adolescence or his wife of 46 years--this man also lived in the world of Testimony, Holocaust, The Lionhearted, the novel By the Waters of Manhattan. It was a world of injustice without ultimate justice, of disembodied outbursts of violent passion, of suffering without the illusion of a political redemption. If Reznikoff's life is ever known, I suspect that what we saw as an untiring humility will be far more tragic.