I never asked my father about his manicures. It didn’t seem appropriate to raise such a frivolous topic with a dedicated newspaper publisher.
Father and Dame Ivy
During a vacation trip to England years ago, I became aware, to my surprise, of my father’s fascination with two British writers: Sylvia Townsend Warner and Ivy Compton-Burnett.
Adventure / Adventurer
The price exacted by a culture determined to keep us in our place is high. It has always been high and I think it may always be high.
Thirty Years Ago…
Those of us who are still alive must try to thrive outside of the tight circuit of the myth, which might be summed up in the Biblical phrase, “How are the mighty fallen!”
The Best Present
My father’s appetite for what he was reading, and, doubtless, for the sound of his own mellifluous, slightly Southern voice, created in me the appetite for words that has provided the meaning of my life.
My Mother’s Eyes
When I became aware of her as my mother (I was her third child), she was a tiny blond woman, almost doll-like, formed by the conventions of upper class marriage. I almost never saw her without make-up, her hair set in careful blond curls, wearing a powerful girdle, a suit and carrying a purse; she seemed always to be armed for a distant battle.