We Are All Children Until Our Fathers

She Seems Sort Of Lost.' I Thought, Lost How? How Am I Lost? Suddenly I Felt Lost.

I Feel In Some Ways I've Had A Difficult Life. And It Makes Me The Kind Of Writer I Am, In What I Value, What I Respect, What I Hold Dear.

In The Cab To The Station, He Told Me That When He Was Growing Up He'd See A Look Of Pleasure Cross His Mother's Face And Ask What She Was Thinking: She'd Say, I Was Just Thinking Of Your Father. "that's How I Want Us To Be," Archie Said. I Smiled. "what?" I Said, "i Was Just Thinking Of Your Father.

But Then You Hear That He Can't Hear You, You See That He Can't See You. You Are Not Here--and You Haven't Even Died Yet. You See Yourself Through His Eyes, As The Generic Woman, The Skirted Symbol On The Ladies' Room Door.

Olive Kitteridge' Is A Masterpiece: The Writing Is So Perfect You Don't Even Notice It; The Story Is So Vivid It's Less Like Reading A Story Than Experiencing It Firsthand.