One of my favorite fanmail stories concerns a mother who wrote to Maurice Sendak following her’s son’s correspondence. After sharing his joy with WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE the boy received from the author a personalized drawing. He loved it so much, the mother told Sendak, that he ate it. Maurice Sendak took it as a compliment.

I mention it because I love Maurice Sendak, but as much to the point, I could wake up every morning and eat pages 46-50 of Nabokov’s SPEAK, MEMORY and never get tired of it. I think part of everything we experience as the audience is marred by our envy. Because we think we’re worth it and it’s tough talking us down from that. When someone teaches you the irregularities of love, and how you take it for granted, and then it’s too late, you just kinda marvel. And you fume.

Why didn’t I think of that first?