I already knew from his books that he patrolled the skies through a telescope of his own devising, haunted the world of Russian fiction, mucked out cow stalls, had sampled the heart of prewar America, was someone who could be “moved at a touch between serenity and desolation,” someone who’d been to war and understood the reality of not just physical, but moral injury. There was nothing buttoned down about him. Jim was wearing: a cornflower-blue shirt with an open collar. And I still remember sitting in his office at Goldwin Smith Hall on my first day.
I was supremely lucky when I went to Cornell as a graduate student, because Jim McConkey, who died last week at the age of 98, was my advisor.
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