"Don't count on a lot of ads now. But you're going to be the best Negro writer in history. Dick Wright's out of the country; the glow will from Whittington [fictif]; Huysmans [fictif], while not quite a flash in the pan, always says the same thing. Himes has vanished... What's the matter?"
"You got to do better than that, Alex." He had already designed the ball park I was to play in.
Did he really not know? Was it all so automatic that no one thought about it? "Nothing," I said. I was afraid to tell him he was a bigot. Ruin my career. Find another agent? Sure, but things were just beginning to click for me. Besides, how bad could it be, to be the best Negro writer in history? But the possibility of being - my wanting to be - far more kept me silent.