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Children and Art

 What a profound delight Delia Ephron's new memoir is.


Ephron has a gift for building characters. On her father-in-law: "This guy's son watched a car accident in which his mother was decapitated. This guy finally arrives at the scene of the crime, and his little son says, What took you so long? And the answer: A shrug, plus, The subway stalled. No attempt at an emotional connection. Which says something big about twenty years of my husband's life."

Ephron, planning her spouse's funeral: "One friend's husband wrote and said that my decision to limit the number of speakers was a sign of my deep cruelty. He said that I was shallow, and that I only wanted to spend time with Hollywood stars. The letter went on and on! He said I had permanently wounded his husband. Remember I was in mourning. My spouse of many years had just died."

On one clueless doctor, who will not address you by name and who will make sure that you're appropriately miserable: "Patient at risk of adverse outcome from underlying disease....Dr. C inserts that note after every visit. Just to remind everyone I might not make it, and this brilliant doctor saw it coming all along. Dr. C should be stuck somewhere dealing with test tubes...."

Ephron has a dramatic story: She was four months from death when she agreed to a seriously risky transplant. The "cure" was so traumatic, she found herself deranged in her suffering, begging to die. And then she walked out of hell and wrote a book.

My favorite parts are actually little insights into Ephron's writing. Ephron remembers being in her thirties and attempting humor essays: She would hear her husband laughing from the other room, and she would sense she had found her footing. Ephron says her writing is a calling; she says any writer's work is her fingerprint, because she notices things no one else will notice (in an order no one else will reconstruct). You can't help but reveal some part of your own weird soul if you're writing honestly about your connection with the world.

Ephron's love of words is evident even in her title: Driving south on Fifth Avenue, you turn "left on Tenth" to reach Ephron's home. But, also, if your husband dies, you're suddenly "left." You're LEFT....on Tenth.....

I just really loved this book, and I sensed Ephron's pleasure in telling the story. This is hard work, and Ephron makes it look easy.
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