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I met James Dickey once, years ago, at a restaurant in Columbia, SC. Me: a 20 something, big breasted member of the college literati. Dickey: An aging alcoholic hound-dog. He came up to me as my friends and I were waiting for a table and asked me to join him for dinner. He stuck his hand out and said, "I’m Dickey, join for me dinner." And I, like a fool, nattered on about how I liked his work and how he "reminded me of my father.." I declined his invitation…and with it my stab at being a literary half-light…