Seen in NYC: Master of War

So there I was, minding my own business, walking with my son and my lovely wife down West 56th St. last night, when I saw a large party of smartly dressed people entering one of the swank restaurants on that strip. I idly looked them over, trying to figure out what kind of folks they were — they included a very butch blonde woman in a crisp white shirt and trousers and a tiny, wrinkled grande dame type.

And bringing up the rear, buttoning his suit jacket with a self-confident little smile, was Donald Rumsfeld.

I just had time to pinch Laura and draw her attention to him and then we walked past his shoulder. He was close enough I could have — could have done what? Reached out and touched him. Said something that he would have had to hear.

I kept my mouth shut, of course, and my hands to myself. And then caught the eye of the Secret Service guy in the enormous SUV parked at the curb. He gave me a smile that said, Yeah, I see you looking at him. Pretty strange, isn't it, to be that close. You know I'd have to smack you down if you got any ideas. But you don't look like the type.

As we walked away I was surprised by how rattled I felt. A little sick. Like I'd witnessed a bad accident. We had been laughing and joking around, and it was a lovely evening, and to our five-year-old it still was. But Laura and I were chilled right through.

Ever since then, the lyrics to Bob Dylan's song "Masters of War" have been knocking around in my head. Dylan wrote it in 1963, when Rumsfeld was serving in the United States Congress as a representative of the 13th District of Illinois. Here are the first three verses:

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

Cornelia Street Thursday

If you missed my readings this past weekend (the one at Sunny's was particularly exhilarating), you'll have another chance on Thursday the 10th, when I'll be appearing with several other Red Hen authors at the Cornelia St. Café, 29 Cornelia St. in the West Village.

Hope to see you there.

Piece in Brooklyn Paper

The Brooklyn Paper, a local community weekly, did a Q&A with me that came out today. Sitting for the interview was a little like going to the dentist -- necessary and not really painful, but anxiety-producing nonetheless. Overall, though, I think it came out OK.

Now, the Reviews

A trepidatious time, this, as my book goes out into the world. I've gotten a few nice reviews, most notably this one from the Maine Sunday Telegram, in which Nancy Grape writes:

Sarah Goodyear has written a fierce and flinty novel about Maine, and about Mainers reacting to things that come at them from away...Seldom have you been carried through a story so real you can smell the pine needles underfoot and the iron-rich water from the well created for you by a writer with Goodyear's talent. It's a literary journey well worth taking.

In the Las Vegas Weekly, Sara Eckel called it "absorbing…an engaging tale of conflicting desires." And some other things that made me feel good.

More tk on this topic.