The First Story I Ever Heard About Harold Bloom

I first heard about Harold Bloom as a college undergraduate. My professor (a non-fiction writer who had co-authored a book on female rage and even gone on Donahue to talk about it) told us a story about having to pick Professor Bloom up from the airport and drive him to our campus for his visit. See, he didn't drive.

The real insult, though, was that he wasn't interested in her work at all. Usually there is a polite give and take: What do you do? Ah, that's nice. Here is what I write about. No, for Bloom there was only him and his ideas.

These are the kind of people I openly loathe and secretly love. Or the other way around.

I had to understand what makes a person think they don't  have to do things like learn to drive or use a typewriter. Or listen to people they find boring or paltry. Part of me wants to be Harold Bloom, I suppose. Maybe in another life.

That is who Leo Wool is, I suppose. Part Harold Bloom, part me.