Portis in the early ’60s, when he was a reporter for The New York Herald Tribune, recalled that back then he was more sociable. The writer and filmmaker Nora Ephron, who got to know Mr. He hasn’t published a novel in nearly 20 years. Portis doesn’t use e-mail, has an unlisted phone number, declines interview requests, including one for this article, and shuns photographs with the ardor of a fugitive in the witness protection program. He is occasionally spotted in Little Rock, Ark., where he has lived for 50-odd years he even went to a gala sponsored there recently by the Oxford American, a literary magazine, and consented to receive a lifetime achievement award, though he sat in the 14th row, or as far from the stage as he could. He’s not a Pynchonesque recluse, exactly. Portis, the author of the 1968 novel on which the new film is based (as was the 1969 John Wayne version) is allergic to fame. The arrival of the Coen brothers’ movie “True Grit” on Wednesday is likely to bring Charles Portis a new surge of attention he has no use for.
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