Notre Dame has always seemed to me a dark, brooding and august female presence presiding over Paris.
I am fortunate on this visit to find the dampness of New York City a great relief after the deadly dryness and manifold allergies of the Southwest.
The value of the collection I keep on the top of my bureau seems suddenly, mysteriously clear.
Life is to be lived, and it is also to be walked.
Having drawn all she could from that source, desperate to go to college, for which she would have to have a scholarship (none of the women in her family had ever dreamed of college), she “dropped out” in the most literal sense, leaving not only school but her mother’s crowded household to go as a sort of nonpaying border to an exceptionally gifted playwright and producer from New York, whose influence would be supreme.
It has been difficult, all these years, for me to say, “My teacher,” to accept with gratitude and a degree of humility that I have more to learn, and that when I’m ready to learn, the teacher will appear. Now it has happened.