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- Alechinsky, Reinhoud, Marchoul.

Say. I've been getting the most wonderful--and meaningful--letters from many of you. I'm trying to answer as many as I can, but I want to say again here how much I appreciate your taking the time. So fun to see everyone's handwriting, and their stationery chocies. I got some lovely handmade cards from one woman. If she's in the business of selling them, I'll give you her information so you can order some.

- Air: 24 Hours Jennifer Bartlett.

So many attempts at making dinner table conversation begin with parental questions and end with monosyllabic answers from kids. But if you ask them the questions on the cards in this box, like “If we were to live on less money, what could we do without?” or “What is our family’s history of helping?,” it becomes much harder to avoid actual talking. Just one question every couple of meals can help change the way children look at the world and help them think more about what their family stands for — and should stand for.

Twee beeldhouwers in het museum en in Eindhoven.

- Of the Decorative Illustration of Books Old and New.

A sad day today, for my Aunt Cathy died last night. She was one of the six sisters with whom my mother was raised. Her life was not easy but I think maybe the truest thing that can be said about her is what my mother told me last night, "For her, the glass was always half full." Aunt Cathy was deeply intelligent, had a terrific sense of humor and an enthusiam for life and learning that was truly inspiring. If there's a heaven, she's there, organizing a book club.

I am fifty-eight years old and lucky to have both parents alive. So many of my contemporaries have lost their parents, or are losing them now. It's a real frustration that we come so late to appreciate so much about our parents. I suppose that's the way it has to be--otherwise, we'd none of us ever leave the nest--we'd be walking in the door with our lunchboxes and yelling "What's for dinner?" to our exhausted 85-year old mothers, asking our 85-year old fathers for permission to stay out late and to fix things.

When I talked to my Mom last night, it was hard to hear her crying but even harder, in a way, to hear her graceful acceptance of the loss of her sister. Yet another thing to admire about my parents' generation. I am not graceful about death. I want to beat it up.

I was in Boston recently, smelling the head of my newest grandchild, now six weeks old. This is a very intelligent baby, I'll tell you. "Gosh, you're really alert," I told her. "I think you are going to be a very bright girl." "Going to be?" she said. In her way. As for her darling brother, 17 month old Matthew, he is in love with a candle. He refers to her as "Candie." Julie, his mother, celebrated her birthday when I was there, and some of her gifts were candles. We put one of the candles in Matthew's room and he was instantly smitten--could not tear his eyes away from that wavering flame. He wanted to touch it but of course we dutifully told him, "Hot! Hot!" and he dutifully repeated same in his breathy little toddler voice. He used to be in love with bubbles, but now his affections have turned from water to fire. What's next--earth? Air?

I am in my big fat fluffy blue robe and I'm going into my study to work and I'm not getting dressed until I'm done. If I ever have to really work for a living, I don't know what I'll do.

After I put the candy out, I sat the kitchen table, hiding. Here's how I know I was hiding: I was doing the crossword puzzle, and I HATE crossword puzzles, because I can never figure out what theyr'e TALKING about and anyway when you're all done and all the little blanks are filled in, WHO CARES? (Hmm. I think I might be a little crabby today, too.) But anyway, there I was hiding and I heard footsteps on the porch and then I heard a high little voice reading my dumb sign aloud and I wanted to go and see her costume but it seemed like it was too late. But it wasn't! I should have run out onto the porch and ripped up the sign, saying, Ha, ha, ha, only kidding, wasn't that a stupid joke, only kidding, let me see your costume, turn around so I can see the back and the sides, too, oh, hooray, hooray, great costume, Happy Halloween, take another candy, take two more, take a whole bunch! But I did not do that and then it really did seem that it was too late, I had sealed my own fate and I sat at the kitchen table and then I hid in my bedroom and read the beautiful poetry of Marie Howe and looked out the window onto the street below at all the little kids, wildly excited and running from house to house. Though after a while they did not run to mine, because just to complete my awfulness, I also had not turned the porch light on. I stood and watched those kids go by and I thought to myself what a terrible terrible person I am and I decided that next year I am wearing a costume and so is Homer (his costume will be devil horns and a muzzle) and I will answer the door with gusto and hand out FULL SIZE SNICKERS. That is my resolution. And the above is my confesssion.

- Love Revealed: Simeon Solomon And The Pre-Raphaelites.

and the reproduction of the artist book Splitting

I am just back from several days in LA, where I recorded THE LAST TIME I SAW YOU, then stayed with friends for a few days. Heaven. Really, it felt like heaven to open the shade in the morning and see the Hollywood Hills and all that green, all those gorgeous flowers and beautiful trees. I took long walks and had some great conversations and ironed out a few wrinkles in the old soul.
When I came home, there was the usual mountain of mail, including several more pieces of writing sent to me by people who are hopeful I will find them an agent, get them published, or just weigh in on their writing. I've gotten really a lot of that, lately. I wish could help, but I can't: I can't even read your pages. The main reason is legal: suppose I'm working on a novel about an octopus that turns human. And lo and behold, you send me some pages about an octopus turning human. You might think I stole your idea. So please: Don't send me your manuscripts or ideas for books--I am obliged to throw them away, unread. Believe me when I tell you I know how strong the longing can be to be published, but for that you need an agent and/or a publisher, and I am neither. I did do a book on writing, called Escaping into the Open, which has everything I know and believe about writing, and the reason I did that book was to offer all I can about the process and business of writing, including lots of exercises to prime the pump. If you're interested, you can get it out of the library or buy it at a bookstore. But please don't send me unpublished material; it makes me feel bad that I can't help you, and it probably makes you feel bad to hear that. Please do keep on writing, though, and remember that the best thing about it is doing the work itself. Honestly. I've published a lot of books, but nothing matches the experience of having the vague but strong feelings inside me transform themselves into words upon the page, so that I can understand what I'm feeling. I'm thrilled and lucky that I get to make my living as a writer, but honestly, the best part has nothing to to do with being published; it has only to do with, well, escaping into the open. That phrase, incidentally, comes from a quote by my favorite author, E.B. White: "All writing is communication; creative writing is communication through revelation--it is the Self escaping into the open."
I have to pay ten thousand bills now. Here's how I pay bills: I put Johnny Mercer on Pandora and listen to all those great old songs while I write out checks. Talk about turning lemons into lemonade!

Designed to chill your spirits without diluting them, these cubes of Irish Connemara marble are from the Dublin design retailer Makers & Brothers.

Luc Deleu, Shirazeh Houshiary, Mario Merz, Pere Noguera, Jacques Vieille, Henk Visch.
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Een Zwitsers schilder aan het hof van stadhouder Willem V.

In half an hour, I'm due to go to the airport . It's time for a hit of grandkids. Outside is a gray sky, and it feels a lot colder, maybe even cold enough to snow. But someone is out with their leaf-blower, acting like there's no such threat at all.
I got a letter from a girl who's doing a school project about me. She had just a few questions. Number one was: What makes you tick?
Also from the mailbag: Esther from Malvern, PA, writes to say that she agrees that dogs' feet smell like Fritos, and she's so glad to have someone else say so.
Cindy, from Ottowa, Canada, was sitting out on her deck thinking about how she always means to write authors whose books move her, and today was the day. She had just spent two hours in her garden, cleaning up hostas and day lillies and gathering leaves. She was also watching two chipmunks, a pair of bluejays, and a woodpecker., and she said she found the moment so perfect she wondered why she ever longed for or envied anyone else's life.
Holly, from Mesa, Arizona, writes complaining that I used the F word in The Year of Pleasures, so she had to immediately stop reading it.
Uh oh, my ride to the airport is here. More letters later. Now it's time for my favorite activity: the airport security line!! Soon we'll all be passing through naked but for a TSA towel.
This year when I go on book tour, I want to travel by donkey.

- For the Love of God: The Making of the Diamond Skull.

Yes, you should read Volumes I and II of Karl Ove Knausgaard's "My Struggle" first, so it's time to wrap up and deliver to your loved one a set of all three. Mr. Knausgaard's somewhat autobiographical novels are mesmerizing; he is contemporary fiction's alchemist of the ordinary. He manages, seemingly without effort, to make the minutia of one man's life as involving and gravity-laden as another writer's account of the assassination of Osama bin Laden.

illustrated throughout in color, including 1 gatefold.108 pages.

This charming epistolary memoir affords a glimpse into a rarefied social and literary milieu. Ms. Stibbe tells the story of how, in 1982, when she was 20, she became the live-in nanny to the two sons of Mary-Kay Wilmers, one of the founders of The London Review of Books. It’s a busy, genteel bohemian house (the boys were the product of Ms. Wilmers’s marriage to the director Stephen Frears), filled with art and artists who pop in, and Ms. Stibbe manages to be wide-eyed and observant at the same time.

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