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I’VE TRIED to tell the truth in this account of my life. There must be inaccuracies of dates, places, and what people did or failed to do; that’s inevitable in a narration of what happened so many years before. But I have told the truth as far as I know it—except for one sentence a page back. The t…

We flew to Rome together, she to catch a plane for the States, I for Athens. The night before, I’d seen the performance of her play and its companion piece by Ed Albee. Watching them, any fool would know that Molly was a nice person and Ed perhaps less nice, but his play had heat and punch, and her…

I did truly admire the second act—the one so many people resented. It was about Art’s obsessive romance with Marilyn Monroe. He had denied, foolishly, that the story of that relationship in the play was based on his personal history, denied that his character, Maggie, was based on Marilyn. But he p…

In the last years of his life, my mother found the task of taking care of a four-story house beyond what was left of her strength, and she plotted with one of her sons to move elsewhere. Father resented the move, particularly because she had made the decision, not he. “She don’t talk to me on that …

BARBARA told me she was pregnant.

There are certain common rules of human behavior I believe in and others I don’t. Barbara had been with me, devoted and loving, for a long time. She’d been the only one who’d encouraged me in my screenplay writing. She wanted a child desperately, had tried for y…