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Reproduced in Pinckney’s new memoir, “Come Back in September: A Literary Education on West Sixty-Seventh Street, Manhattan,” those aperçus, which belong in some kind of literary hall of fame, include:

We’d go north on Jeffery and then west on Sixty-Seventh Street, then north again, zagging and stopping every two blocks to collect more people.

After a trip to see Blackwood and his son, Sheridan, in Ireland, Lowell died of a heart attack, on September 12, 1977, in a taxicab taking him from J.F.K. to Hardwick’s apartment, on West Sixty-seventh Street—a poignant twist for the biographers Hardwick had been dreading for years.

When Saveur profiled Heatter, in 1997, the magazine republished her East Sixty-seventh Street Lemon Cake, one of her earliest Times recipes.

We were sitting in the Green Room at the Armory, on Sixty-seventh Street, and snow was falling outside the huge windows.