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“Whose thigh is being stabbed here?” the host asks.

“This one,” X said, pointing to one of the drawings.

“What I mean is—metaphorically. What is the metaphor of the thigh?”

“It’s not a metaphor,” X says, almost whispering, staring at the floor. “It’s a part of a leg.”†

“She wasn’t afraid to be hostile … and that was something I was very interested in at the time. Unfortunately, I’ve always been one of those people who wants to be liked, one of the most terrible weaknesses a person can have, but what can you do? Of course, everyone’s virtues come with equal and op…

By the time I contacted Marion for an interview in 2003, I’d been a widow for long enough that I no longer feared meeting this first wife, though I cannot say I was looking forward to it. I will admit I was intimidated by Marion’s effortless grace—who wouldn’t be? She is a good deal younger than I …

When I later asked her why she bought the paintings if she didn’t think they were so great, X told me they were her reminder that meaningful work isn’t always “good work” and a challenge to make things that were both good and meaningful. The paintings were also, though my wife was loath to utter su…

It would not be unreasonable to say that X and I, in that moment, did not yet know each other except by instinct. We hadn’t yet cohabitated, had endured no hardships, hadn’t traveled together, and had only discussed personal matters in the most cursory ways. Despite this, I felt X knew me better th…