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In the fall of 1924 Thomas Wolfe, fresh from his courses in play－writing at Harvard, joined the eight or ten of us who were teaching English composition in New York University．I had never before seen a man so tall as he, and so ugly．I pitied him and went out of my way to help him with his work and to make him feel at home．
His students soon let me know that he had no need of my protectiveness．They spoke of his ability to explain a poem in such a manner as to have them shouting with laughter or struggling to keep back their tears of his readiness to quote in detail from any poet they could name．
Indeed, his students made so much of his powers of observation that I decided to make a little test and see for myself．My chance came one morning when the students were slowing gathering for nine o’clock classes．
Upon arriving at the university that day, I found Wolfe alone in the large room which served all the English composition teacher as an office．He did not say anything when I asked him to come with me out into the hall, and he only smiled when we reached a classroom door and I told him to enter alone and look around．
He stepped in, remained no more than thirty seconds and then came out．“Tell me what you see.” I said as I took his place in the room, leaving him in the hall with his back to the door．Without the least hesitation and without a single error, he gave the number of seats in the room, pointed out those which were taken by boys and those occupied by girls, named the colors each student was wearing, pointed out the Latin verb written on the blackboard, spoke of the chalk marks which the cleaner had failed to wash from the window．
As I rejoined Wolfe, I was speechless with surprise．He, on the contrary, was wholly calm as he said, “The worst thing about it is that I’ll remember it all.”
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