A memory of the nineteen nineties (1997)

Above, the vast blue plaster dome with its arched windows and skylight is just as it was a hundred years ago, on that terrible day when -- A distant loose-leaf binder clicks shut. It's 1:53. Soon it will be two o'clock. Then, at last, 2:10, the moment I have been waiting for. To be here, in this spot in London, on this day at ten past two, I have traveled 4,000 miles and planned for thirty-four and a half years. * * * Thirty-four and a half years ago I was sitting in a nearly empty high school classroom in Philadelphia under the spell of my English teacher and drama coach, D. G. Rosenbaum. I idolized Mr. Rosenbaum (or "Rosey," as we Drama Society brats called him). He had a dark, resonant voice. He had a widow's peak and a moustache and goatee that made him look like Mephistopheles; he hinted that his ancestors were Scottish warlocks. He wore trim black suits, blood-red vests, and pince-nez. He smoked black cigarettes with gold tips, and made them vanish by sleight of hand wh ... Read full article.