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By Lynda Schor
His shirt is ripped clear through the middle, the panel with the buttons on it is severed from the other two sides and is hanging down. There are huge rips at both shoulders where his bear hair curls through. "What happened to your shirt?" I ask. "I ripped it," he says. "I also ripped your books." There's only a minor mess, he ripped only two or three, mostly just ones that he did the jackets for and that the publisher gave him for nothing. I can see that even in passion he knows the value of things. My appetite returns full force. "Are you hungry?" I ask without waiting for an answer, as I know he's always hungry . . .