My father once nearly came to blows with a female dinner guest about whether a particular patch of embroidery was fuchsia or magenta. But the infinite gradations of color in a fine sunset - from salmon to canary to midnight blue - left him wordless.

Was Daedalus really stricken with grief when Icarus fell into the sea? Or just disappointed by the design failure

I do sometimes miss doing that lighter, more humorous work, and I find there's a heavier responsibility that goes along with a literary reputation. You have to start knowing what you're talking about and you have to go have public conversations with writers. That's been pretty intense; I have to really stay on top of things in a way I didn't before.

Watching everyone root through their psyche, it just delights me. Especially R. Crumb's stuff.

Partly I resented being perceived as weak because I was a girl.

But I read comic books. I read things like Richie Rich and Little Lulu.

If there was ever a bigger pansy than my father, it was Marcel Proust.