absolute calm in which I went over in my mind what I had to do, reminding myself that I had enough money ... for a hotel room and that my baggage-my nylon suit­ case and my Harvard book bag-would certainly be ... which seemed pretty tame, but a sentence from my textbook suddenly popped into my head, an imperative: ...

lake and vanished in woods on the far side. By then my brief acquaintance with his face may well have ... settled far enough down to find the buried face of my father. Whyever, I left the coffee urn and asked our ... kind I'd felt when he said my personal name and walked away like Adam naming the beasts in ...

up and you two go in and start a game," my moth­ er says brightly. Mr. Arnette sits down at ... later," my mother says, glancing at Mr. Arnette for support. "I don't think ... "Where's mine?" my mother asks. "You hate eggs," I say. "We ...

upon" should my husband die and leave me to support children. Not for a moment did my education ... entertain ideas of personal responsibility (beyond, truly, my obligation not to lead boys to sin before ... Marx or Freud. When I was in my second year of college, in 1963, Simone de Beauvoir's The ...

exists as if there had been nothing before and nothing coming after. My mother's death ended the ... journey we all face-those of us who outlive our parents. And it ended the trips to Chicago my sisters and ... memorable visit I decided to drive. My mother was ninety-seven that spring and still relatively vital. ...