Mad Men

DON DRAPER SAT in his third-floor walk-up in the rue du Temple in the Marais. It was the winter of 1971. He had been there four years. After Maud, the Columbia English professor, his third black lover and the last woman to refuse to go to Paris with him, he went himself. To write, of course. His first book, a novel called Solitudes, about a boyhood on a Pennsylvania farm with adults as “walking nightmares from which it was impossible to awake”—that was what James Baldwin wrote for the flap copy—had respectful notices months after the few copies New Directions printed had already been returned, but Confessions of a Mind Manager, a memoir about his years in advertising, his affair with Ayn Rand, and the murder, had sold over a million copies for Grove Press. He could do whatever he wanted.

Jean-Paul came in. They kissed, and he watched as the younger man unpacked the market sack. He thought

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