Isherwood

Two months after my English professor introduced me to the works of Christopher Isherwood, I met the author at a special screening of “The Loved One.” As guest of honor, Isherwood fielded questions from the audience, shared amusing anecdotes and autographed copies of his books.

A year later, I sought him out again at a book-signing in Hollywood. Once again, he cheerfully accommodated a long line of fans armed with copies of his books.

“Please, no apologies,” he said. “I’ll sign as many of them as you like.”

Now that Isherwood is gone, the world remembers the sparkling, enviable prose style; the “Berlin” diarist coolly describing a policeman falling dead at the feet of a cardboard figure; the underworld denizens of “Cabaret.”

I treasure the memory of a warm, unaffected personality who shared a few moments with a fan.

LES HAMMER

Northridge