On Christmas Day a few years back, I heard Elvis Presley sing a holiday song with the chorus of "Why can t every day be like Christmas?" I have looked on
He inhabits a penthouse far above New York City. It's filled with an accumulation of expensive possessions - with antique furniture, rich draperies, paintings, souvenirs of what seems to have been a successful career as a land developer. He tyrannizes his faithful male secretary with barked commands, with sudden shifts of mood, with bursts of paranoia. He likes to perch on his parapet and survey the city through a telescope. He is not searching idly: He believes he is being followed by men in a blue Mercedes. He is quite clearly mad. His history is a painful one. His name is Arthur Goldman, and he was an inmate of a Nazi concentration camp. To this day his nightmares are punctuated with the fearsome presence of Dorf, commandant of the camp. Thirty years have passed, and yet Dorf controls him still. Or does he control - did he create - Dorf himself? That is the last and most puzzling question raised by "The Man in the Glass Booth," which is the inaugural offering of the Am