Back in the 1960s, Cohen’s sensitive, passionate writing made him a figure of romantic obsession to young educated women, and he is still, to some, an intellectual sex symbol. In retrospect, he finds it amusing that he was the object of such lust.
It’s so curious because I couldn’t get a date. I couldn’t find anybody to have dinner with. By the time that first record came out, which rescued me, I was already in such a shattered situation that I found myself living at the Henry Hudson Hotel on West 57th Street, going to the Morningstar Cafe on 8th Ave, trying to find some way to approach the waitress and ask her out. I would get letters of longing from around the world, and I would find myself walking the streets of New York at three in the morning, trying to strike up conversations with the women selling cigarettes in hotels. I think it’s always like that. It’s never delivered to you.1
I am republishing selected posts from my former Leonard Cohen site, Cohencentric, here on AllanShowalter.com (these posts can be found at Leonard Cohen). This entry was originally posted Sep 5, 2014 at DrHGuy.com, a predecessor of Cohencentric.
- From The Loneliness of The Long-Suffering Folkie By Wayne Robins (Newsday – Long Island, November 22, 1992). [↩]