Late in 1960, soon after I came to New York to work in the theatre, I met my first disprized playwright, Jerome Max—26, largely self-educated, witty, poor, and unhappy. He had actually written something, unlike the neglected young novelists I had known, and when he finally allowed me to read his play, I thought it eccentric and very good. Max didn't think it was good at all, however, and he was full of pessimism about his prospects. But he was working on two new plays. When he finished them some months later and showed them to agents, producers, and directors, people started telling him that he was a good writer, and when a producer took an option on the new plays the point got through to him. Max took a leave from his job and lived on the option money.