SOURCE: "On Hannah Arendt," in New York Review of Books, Vol. XXII, No. 8, May 13, 1976, p. 6.

In the following essay, Lowell reminisces about his relationship with Arendt and his impressions on reading her works.

Hannah Arendt was an oasis in the fevered, dialectical dust of New York—to me, and I imagine to everyone who loved her. We met in the late Fifties or early Sixties in Mary McCarthy's apartment. She seemed hardly to take her coat off, as she brushed on with purpose to a class or functional shopping. In her hurry, she had time to say to me something like "This is an occasion," or more probably, "This is a meeting." I put the least intention into her words, but later dared telephone her to make a call. The calls were part of my life as long as I lived in New York—once a month, sometimes...