The New York Times‘ interactive Literary Map of Manhattan—which cites places where “imaginary New Yorkers lived, worked, played, drank and looked at ducks"—got a lot of play in the blog world a few weeks back, but we couldn’t help but notice a gap in its coverage: Where’s the 92nd Street Y?

Dylan Thomas famously completed his play for voices, Under Milk Wood, while staying at the Y’s de Hirsch Residence, but many novels have also had scenes that take place here, most notably perhaps John Irving’s A Widow for One Year:

When Eddie O’Hare finally stepped up to the microphone onstage and addressed the [92nd Street Y’s] jam-packed Kaufmann Concert Hall, he astutely interpreted the reverential hush of the audience. They worshiped Ruth Cole, and the consensus was that this book was her best. The audience also knew that this was Ruth’s first public appearance since her husband’s death. Lastly, Eddie interpreted, there was an anxious hush throughout the audience—for there were many souls in the enormous crowd who knew how Eddie could go on and on.

Therefore, Eddie said: “Ruth needs no introduction.”

Nicole Krauss’s new novel, The History of Love, also uses the Y as a backdrop:

I turned my son’s book over to look at his photograph. We met once. Not met, but stood face to face. It was at a reading at the 92nd Street Y. I bought tickets four months in advance. Many times in my life I’d imagined our meeting. I as his father, he as my son. And yet, I knew it never could happen, not the way I wanted. I’d accepted that the most I could hope for was a place in the audience. But during the reading something came over me. Afterwards, I found myself standing in line, my hands shaking as I pressed into his the scrap of paper onto which I’d written my name. He glanced at it and copied it into a book. I tried to say something but there was no sound. He smiled and thanked me. And yet. I didn’t budge. Is there something else? he asked. I flapped my hands. The woman behind me gave an impatient look and pushed forward to greet him. Like a fool I flapped. What could he do? He signed the woman’s book. It was uncomfortable for everyone. My hands danced on. The line had to move around me. Occasionally he looked up at me, bewildered. Once, he smiled at me the way you smile at an idiot. But my hands fought to tell him everything. At least as much as they could before a security guard firmly grasped my elbow and escorted me out the door.

Ms. Krauss is scheduled to give a reading here with Colson Whitehead next April.

The Poetry Center’s new season just went on sale yesterday and features readings by Joan Didion, Salman Rushdie, John Updike, Frank McCourt, Wole Soyinka, Seamus Heaney and many, many others. Come on in and feel free to use our accommodations as a backdrop for your next novel (we also have classes to help with that).