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If not for Henry Seiden, this journal would not exist, and I would not be writing or editing “Reminiscence.” When Henry took the chair of the publications committee of the Division, there was no DIVISION/Review. After it was founded, under Henry's vision and initiative, after he recruited David Lichtenstein as its editor, and after David decided to include “Reminiscence” as one of its features, Henry asked me whether I'd be interested in editing it. We were having lunch at Sapphire, an Indian restaurant on Broadway, a few blocks from my office. Almost at its front door is a subway exit from which Henry emerged innumerable times, at the precise moment that we'd scheduled lunch. He used to say, “It's always a pleasure having lunch with a shrink: they show up exactly on time.” The remark certainly applied to him.
“So,” Henry says to me, “would you like to edit the ‘Reminiscence’ feature?” I ask him for some time to think about it. The next time we meet, he says he assumed I was not interested, because I didn't get back to him. I say, “But I am.” He, looking pleased, says he will recommend me to David for that position. When we speak again, he says, “Okay, you're responsible for ‘Reminiscence’.”
That's how Henry worked. He got an idea, decided on the people to implement it, and, before they could change their minds, had the thing rolling. As it gained momentum, everyone involved got the feeling that its existence was ineluctable, and that it was absolutely going to work. And, dammit, it did!
Henry was a “Yes!” person. He had very little tolerance for “can't” or “won't.” This was not grandiosity, mania, splitting, or denial; it was a very practical form of inspiration, native to Henry. It was a pillar of his character. You can see it in his poetry, the tropes consisting of palpable, familiar experiences that attain transcendence under the scrutiny of Henry's inner eye.
I first met Henry in the fall of 1961, when we were both members of a small group of graduate students begi