AT SOME convenient point in any morning,Tom Wolfe would place on his working clothes. Over a silk shirt, maybe ultramarine, or maybe striped,he knotted a silk tie. A proper Windsor knot! No plastic cheaters, like Marshal McLuhan! Then a perfectly tailor-made white suit of linen or silk tweed…with double-breasted vest…black blue trim of the matching square peeking from the breast pocket…cream socks....leather spectator spat boots…the summer passeggiata gear of Richmond, and Virginia,his home town, transposed to fresh York. A glance in the mirror—the face fine, and a china doll’s,with hardly a suggestion of shaving. The underlip puppet-stiff, but the hair floppy in the English style, or falling almost to the intertragic notch of his ear.
Work was not far to find,across a few dozen metres of parquet flooring, past orchids and butter-yellow sofas, and to his study in his apartment on the Upper East Side. There stood his desk. His desk! A brass-galleried horseshoe in light oak...
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Source: economist.com