Doran and I interviewed one another in spring, 1972, when I was recovering from appendicitis in a hospital bed; after a half hour of talk, I hoped he would choose UCSB for his graduate work. He did. Although he started while I was in Ghana in 1972–73, he took my Fall ‘73 course on African arts and wrote an excellent if wordy term paper to which I assigned an A-minus—for him a low grade he never ceased kidding me about, because I wrote extensive comments that he often later claimed, in hyperbole, were longer than the paper itself. He loved embellishing that story, the last version of which he told a few days before he joined the ancestral realm. I then kidded him back, that I was sorry it was not a B+. He was bright, eager, confident, and friendly that fall yet frustrated that I was not there when...

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