Harry Ransom CenterThe University of Texas at Austin

Peter Orlovsky by Brian Fahey

San Francisco is not what it used to be. For that matter neither is New York or Paris or anywhere that used to mean a great deal to me. Or to Allen.

A quiet, nostalgic death 3 flights up, East 12th street in New York City. No more sweet summers with lovers, Chinatown opium dens, or me. Allen. Not himself except in an urn of ashes. But I don't want to get ahead of myself...

San Francisco. December 1954. 21 years old with an innocent eye for nature. Freshly discharged from the army. Living with Robert. He paints my portrait. Head of Peter Orlovsky, he calls it.

That's how it all began... "This is Allen." I can tell Robert is reluctant to introduce us. "Hello. I like your portrait." Big glasses. Kind of, kind of creepy. He's nervous and his hands are shaking. Sweaty but cold. Maybe Robert told him I was good in the sack.