Liars and Saints

  A perfect essay is a rare event. Here's an example. The playwright Sarah Ruhl is alarmed; a scream is coming from her daughter's room. It turns out the daughter has just discovered dramatic irony. "I know something that the Little Princess does not--and this feeling is the worst." Having claimed to be terrified, Daughter happily keeps turning the pages. Sarah then considers her own distaste for dramatic irony--and links this feeling with death, which is "the  ultimate  form of this particular species of irony." God holds all the cards; God knows when you will die, and God isn't saying. More spirited than Sarah, Daughter has a solution. It's possible to cheat death. Just look at dolls; they get "old," but they do not age. Take that, God. This is a terrific essay for a few reasons. First, it's consistently surprising. Second, it shows two versions of insanity: one belongs to the bullheaded daughter, but another belongs to Sarah Ruhl. (W...

 A book I sometimes recall is the memoir "Smile," by Sarah Ruhl. Ruhl was a big-deal playwright when she learned she would be giving birth to twins. The pregnancy had complications; Ruhl was told to remain on bed rest. (Ruhl observes that men invented the concept of "bed rest," and that the efficacy of the "treatment" is debatable, at best. This is the first of many cool-yet-scathing moments in Ruhl's story.) Ruhl sleeps; she reads "Twilight." She sees all the "Twilight" films. She borrows the letters of Elizabeth Bishop. After Ruhl gives birth, her face collapses. The problem is Bell's Palsy--something that could be temporary, or could be permanent. And ten years elapse. Ruhl's life is turned on its head. She sits at home and feels anger toward her spouse. ("No one notes that Shakespeare had twins. There is an approximate decade of silence in Shakespeare's career. No one says, that's when Anne Hathaway smacked ...