Frank Conroy writes that "literature is a river." For Frank, it's a river that flows from a wall of dusty books, into a hot New York street, past sausage carts and shoeshine stands, through the door of a smoky pool hall, dripping downstairs to a red-lit jazz club, echoing with Mingus and Marsalis.
Conroy's vision and voice were born in New York's streets; a skinny white kid who kept his eyes open. He won literary fame at 30, with his 1967 memoir, "Stop-Time". Subsequent decades have brought him a different sort of recognition, as director of the country's leading writing program, the Iowa Workshop.
But now, this teacher, this musician, this quintessential observer has a new collection of essays, "Dogs Bark, but the Caravan Rolls On".
