On Mozart by Anthony Burgess
I was just a kid, cold and wet, having made my way through the D.C. Metro and showing up at Olsson’s Books. I bought a copy and waited. He was late, shadowed by his wife, apologizing to all for the delay. When my turn came he looked up from the desk, stood, reached out and took my hand. Leaning in with narrowed eyes, he smiled and told me, ” I always like to meet a reader.” That was all I needed.