I met John White for the first and only time on an afternoon in December 1968, or perhaps very early in January that next year. I was a junior at the University of Texas at Austin, living with a rotating cast of roommates in an old two-story house on Nueces Street that had been carved up into student apartments. The house was fashionably decrepit, and its stucco exterior was painted a nauseating mustardy shade that had earned it the name the Yellow Bordello. I lived in a back room whose only decor was a plastic 3D picture above my bed that depicted a little boy and girl on a narrow bridge over a frightening gorge, their guardian angel hovering behind them. The living room I…
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