YOU PHONED THAT NIGHT WHEN YOU were writing “Oh, Joseph, I’m So Tired,” and asked if Mary would really have a donkey and why were they going to Bethlehem anyway. I told you about the Annunciation, and you said: “Well, everybody knew they were going steady, didn’t they?” I remember how much you laughed, how easy it was to make you laugh, how much of your laughter was at yourself. It’s your mornings I imagine, Dick. You never complained to me about your body, so I imagine you waking to a room, a world, that seemed to have enough air for everyone but you, and gathering yourself, putting on those gentleman’s clothes you wore, and bringing your great heart and your pure writer’s conscience to the desk, the legal pad, the pencil. You just kept doing it, morning after morning, and you inspired me, you gave me courage, taking your morning stand against your flesh and circumstance, writing prose that was a blade, a flame, a cloud, a breath. So you rest, old friend. And about all those words you wrote in all your books on my shelf, I say as you used to about a book or story you loved: They’re swell, Dick, they’re really swell; it’s a sweetheart of a life’s work, it’s a sweetheart.