In my solitude you haunt me / With reveries of days gone by. / In my solitude you taunt me / With memories that never die

Other nights found a group of us on the dining room deck, sipping whiskey with the assistant director of the camp, Mo, a Stanford alum taking a break from his English PhD, and discussing literature and the weighty matters of postadolescent life. The next year he returned to his PhD, and later he sent me his first published short story, summing up o

And they were familiar with death. In her small house Nóra could see that her neighbours were making room for sorrow in the way they knew to be best.