Was there ever in anyone's life span a point free in time, devoid of memory, a night when choice was any more than the sum of all the choices gone before?

I recall an August afternoon in Chicago in 1973 when I took my daughter, then seven, to see what Georgia O’Keeffe had done with where she had been. One of the vast O’Keeffe ‘Sky Above Clouds’ canvases floated over the back stairs in the Chicago Art Institute that day, dominating what seemed to be several stories of empty light, and my daughter looked at it once, ran to the landing, and kept on looking. "Who drew it," she whispered after a while. I told her. "I need to talk to her," she said finally.

In the early years, you fight because you don't understand each other. In the later years, you fight because you do.

There was a level on which I believed that what had happened remained reversible

That no one dies of migraine seems, to someone deep into an attack, an ambiguous blessing.

He was an outsider who lived by his ability to manipulate the inside.

Grief, when it comes, is nothing like we expect it to be.