Ethics and integrity can feel disturbingly out of fashion. What drew me to The New York Times’ “Ethicist” column—and prompted me to write—was its willingness to linger over moral questions without easy answers.
Over the holidays, I read Plain and Simple, a book by the late Sue Bender, an artist and psychologist who became obsessed with Amish quilts and dolls, and found a way to live among their makers. Their reality sometimes unsettled her—but it only deepened her appreciation.
Mouchette, a French peasant girl whose name means “little fly,” is a pest to the people around her. Scrunched up and defensive, she clomps through a rough world where words have little value—even the ones that might save her life.
As a closeted teenager, I found expression for how I felt in Éponine’s unrequited love song “On My Own.” Decades later, I still hear that ache in the voices of Linda Ronstadt and Selena Gomez—singers with more than a little in common.
This week, The New Yorker published my letter to the editor about Brooklyn’s Green-Wood Cemetery, a place I walk through weekly, finding new things to discover each time.
At a book critics’ lunch, I reconnected with someone from my very first publishing job—without realizing it at first. What came back to me was a quiet moment of encouragement that stayed with me far longer than she probably knew.
"Oh, so you’re the one all the writers are afraid of!"
That wasn’t how I saw my role at all. In fact, the idea had never crossed my mind. Suddenly, I felt like a great big monster with no idea how ugly he is until people start screaming and running away.