The weeks before Christmas always put me in mind of a major acceptance. And not because it’s a time of gifts.
Twenty-five years ago, on a cold December evening in Philadelphia, I left my office at the American College of Physicians – where I wrote for the Observer, an internal organ for internists – and walked the few blocks to our apartment on 47th Street. Picking up the mail, I found, standing out from the bills and the Christmas cards, an envelope from The American Scholar. I opened it nervously, and read that my essay on Poland had been accepted. The editor, Joseph Epstein, who had always been gracious in his rejections, was uplifting in his acceptance.
This was my first major success as a writer. I headed downtown to a friend’s holiday party. I had never walked so triumphantly into a room. I found Hania standing near the Christmas tree and, reaching inside my sportcoat, I extracted the letter like a talisman.
