Morris Rossenfield
And that is the tragedy of the poet, who for a quarter of a century has sung the tragedy of the most tragic nation in history.
Behold him pacing the street in the Yiddish newspaper row where he comes once or twice a week to see his editor. He is alone. In one hand a heavy cane, in the other a book or manuscript. There is a perceptible limp in his step, the result of an apoplectic attack that almost sent him to the grave ten years ago. Sometimes his face is calm and smooth. Other times it is filled with anguish that seems to express bodily pain as well as mental suffering.
In his greeting one cannot fail to observe an internal sick nervousness. It consists of an exaggerated bow, a piercing glance followed by a smile, a chuckle and a peculiar remark.
His forehead and skull are also striking. Thin silky hair, standing erect in disorderly array, cover a perfectly round head. Beneath is a high forehead, furrowed and almost always of ruddy tinge. You glance at it and you are struck. You know that enclosed in that skull lodges a restless, impulsive, fiery brain.
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