When I went up to Rochester to see John Ashbery give a reading, one of my favorite poets and the person unanimously chosen by critics and readers to represent the finest in contemporary poetry, one of the living masters, certainly, I decided that I wouldn’t bring along a collection of his poems for him to sign, as anyone else might, but a book that was important to him, Giorgio de Chirico’s Hebdomeros, which he’d written about in several publications and for which, in this particular volume, he had provided an introduction. I have no idea what motivated my choice, aside from the fact that for many years in lectures and conversations, people, including my students, asked if I bore any relation whatsoever to the painter, and I always told them that despite the depth of research I had done into the subject de Chirico’s family origins were mysterious to me, and the only interesting facts I had culled from this involved his father, a railway engineer, whose occupation must have dictated, to some degree, the appearance of trains puffing away in the distance in the paintings. I also thought that when Ashbery’s hand provided, above his own signature, the letters of my last name, in a text whose authors included both Ashbery and de Chirico, it would in effect close the loop. Adding to this insanity was the fact that as I waited on line after the reading, Hebdomeros in hand, surrounded by a dozen others holding copies of A Wave, Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror and Chinese Whispers, I decided that, if circumstances prevailed, and I could deliver the lines with the same assurance and serenity as I have delivered a thousand lines in classes and elsewhere, I would say to Ashbery, “I don’t know if you remember this, but you were in a dream I had ten years ago,” which happened to be true. “In it, I asked you if I should use adjectives in my poems. You said yes, because it would be more ‘painterly’ that way.” For some preposterous reason I thought this would be memorable and charming, so I clung to it, rehearsing it in my head a number of times as I waited.

Yet, as the line moved forward, bringing me close to a confrontation with my idol, I told myself this was not my idol but only a seventy-five-year-old poet whose career had spanned the length of my entire existence. How could it possibly matter that I’d encountered his work at various times in my life both public and private, that I’d taught his poems and spoken them aloud to myself at different and widely separated moments? Hadn’t I also met, for that matter, any number of famous writers—as a professor of literature, weren’t they really my stock in trade? After a certain amount of meditation I finally decided that running into Ashbery couldn’t be any big deal. It was wholly inevitable, part of my duty as a scholar. And I winced as, ahead of me, a kid getting Hotel Lautréamont inscribed poured his miserable heart out: “I’d never heard of John Ashbery poetry a couple of years ago, but then I read it and I was amazed. I’ve loved John Ashbery poetry ever since then. You’re John Ashbery. I wanted to go to school to Bard last fall. You’re the Chair of the English Department there, aren’t you?” Smiling, used to this level of adoration, Ashbery kindly corrected him. There was no way I was going to fold like that, I told myself; I would be relaxed, cool and calm.

When it was my turn I said hello and put the book down in front of Ashbery, open to the introduction page, where he could plainly see his name. But the only thing that registered was a blank. Something crossed his face, to the effect of, This isn’t one of my books. He picked it up and examined the cover, confirming this, then looked at me for an explanation, which I had never once rehearsed. It hadn’t even occurred to me that to bring another author’s book to a signing might be confusing, or possibly even rude, which maybe this was. “I would never have known of the existence of this book if you hadn’t written about it,” I stammered, and he looked at the cover once again. “You wrote the introduction for this edition,” I assured him. This was the master of American Surrealism, and still he seemed confused. So I pointed out my name was Chirico, and rapidly tried to communicate my amusement with the pairing of names as people waited behind me. Nothing. Blank slate. The lights began to take on a kind of epileptic aura. And, to make matters worse, a giant, meaningless and irrepressible smile had never once left my face. I couldn’t go any further. I just broke down: I said I loved his work and had all his books and I said a bunch of things I can’t recall and still he seemed confused.

I had nothing else. He wasn’t signing the book. He wasn’t saying that he wasn’t signing the book, but he was looking at me and I had nothing more to say. So I launched into the only thing I was prepared to say: “I don’t know if you remember this, but you were in a dream I had ten years ago. In it, I asked you if I should use adjectives in my poems. You said yes, because it would be more painterly that way.”

Now, when I had reached this completely outrageous plateau, he smiled. Whether with me or at me I have no idea; but, having understood what I said, or to put me out of my misery, or maybe, just maybe, having remembered visiting my dream, he asked where he should sign the book.

I opened it again to the introduction page. He signed his name. As he did, he said, “Where was this again?” I told him. “It was a dream I had about ten years ago. Here, while living in Rochester,” I added, as if this explained things more than just saying “Dreamland.”

“What’s your first name?”

“David.”

He paused a moment, saying the name to himself. “David Chirico.”

He wrote this out, handed me the book, and I walked away.