I was lucky enough to arrive at 2 East 48 Street when D.O. was still around, although he was sort of uber-emeritus at the time and it wasn’t really clear what he was doing there. In the first few years I worked there, I think I saw him a total of three to four times — and never in an official business capacity. Still, the magnitude of those encounters stays with me. Here’s one — my boss, Neil Martineau, stopped by my office with D.O. and said, “David, I’d like to introduce you to one of our young writers.” I looked up from my typewriter (yes, typewriter) and there he was, the man, in a tweed suit with vest in the middle of a scorching Manhattan summer afternoon. I said, “Pleased to meet you,” and shook his hand. He said, “How old are you?” I said, “I’m 23.” He paused for a moment, and then he said, “Nobody’s 23!” And with a smile, he walked on.