In the last book he wrote, A Passion for Truth, Abraham Joshua Heschel asks regarding Reb Menahem Mendl of Kotzk, the Hasidic tzaddik, who lived the better part of his life during the first half of the nineteenth century, "Did the Kotzker lack a sense of human worth?" Then, answering his own question, Heschel replies, "He had many ... harsh things to say about self- centeredness and the nature of man. Yet they did not stem from disparagement but, rather from an overestimation of man´s capacities if he but exercise his powers of will. The Kotzker set exalted goals for his disciples because he believed in their ability to make the prodigious efforts required to reach them." This was as true of Martin S. Dworkin as it was of the Kotzker. If I were asked to characterize Marty's life, I would have to say that it was the victory of moral obligation over artistic genius. It was his unwavering moral integrity that was to be the hallmark of his life and work. Marty went against the tide. His cry was one of alarm. In a world that contains so much hypocrisy, so much mendacity, so much smug satisfaction with the way things are, he stands before us as a man aflame with a passion for truth, prepared to bear witness by exposing sham, and knowing full well that the price for his actions would be high. He was convinced, as his life drew to a close, that his friends had failed him, that they had not delivered to their friendship with him what they should have. As a result, he said, too much of his valuable time had been spent helping them, time that could have been spent on his own work. To explain why he had hung in there with them so long, he told me that they were his friends and he kept hoping that they would do the right thing. And yet, it must be said, the fruits of his artistic endeavors are still considerable and remain today to be evaluated. For example, in my judgment many of Marty's poems, a number of which the reader will find in this memoir, rank with the best around today. And the same can be said of his short stories, his photographs and the huge body of his film criticism -which cries out for publication to fill the gap that presently exists in the literature. Sadly, however, his creative works never really cought on. Although his work was admired and appreciated by cognoscenti, it never received the wide attention that it truly deserved. Regarding friendship, Marty once told me that he played the cards he was dealt. Concerning the friends about whom I write, I knew him first, Lawrence Cremin, who became President of Teachers College, Columbia University, was the second, and William Gaddis, the eminent novelist, was the third. Although different in a number of significant ways as this book will bear out, the three of us have at least one thing in common. Each of us wound up being judged by Marty to have failed the test of friendship, and I shall contend that we became central figures in the gradual unfolding of a tragic life. But who would have suspected during the early years (with the possible exception of Marty himself, who was always deeply pessimistic) that things would end so badly? In the course of one of our many conversations in 1984, the terrible year his wife Miki died, Marty spoke once again of the events that led to his first meetings with Larry and Willie. I am using Larry, Willie and Robbie throughout this memoir when I refer to these friends of Marty, not because I knew them that well, although I was on a first name basis with Larry, but because it is the way Marty always spoke of them to me; it seems fitting to me, therefore, to do so. Over the many years of our friendship, he had made it clear that he himself would never write of these things, but I know he hoped or at least expected someone else would think his life and work interesting and important enough to want to tell his story. But this, he always maintained, was