After one book of his short stories and one novel I never read much more of his fiction. But he was also a fine art critic. Here he asks the question “What is American about American art?” and asserts that American art is “liney”.

And he was a Red Sox fan. Baseball Almanac reprints his farewell to Ted Williams, a combination of love, erudition, and irony. A sampling:

Greatness necessarily attracts debunkers, but in Williams’ case the hostility has been systematic and unappeasable. His basic offense against the fans has been to wish that they weren’t there. Seeking a perfectionist’s vacuum, he has quixotically desired to sever the game from the ground of paid spectatorship and publicity that supports it. Hence his refusal to tip his cap to the crowd or turn the other cheek to newsmen. It has been a costly theory—it has probably cost him, among other evidences of good will, two Most Valuable Player awards, which are voted by reporters—but he has held to it from his rookie year on. While his critics, oral and literary, remained beyond the reach of his discipline, the opposing pitchers were accessible, and he spanked them to the tune of .406 in 1941. He slumped to .356 in 1942 and went off to war.

(h/t Althouse)