I was assessing my face against my mother’s from my earliest memories, or rather the world around me was, and it was consistently communicating—in a quizzical glance or a compliment withheld or a h…
Kenneth Tynan’s widow Kathleen, in her introduction to his letters, states, Writers hate to write, almost all of them. She goes on to describe, in loving remembrance, her husband, blocked as a writ…
