An anthology called Brief Lives. Not the writings of people who lived
briefly, as I had thought. But rather the lives of the famous, written about
briefly. It’s hard not to admire them. They came, they conquered, they left
the scene entirely. Their lives make a sort of graph: perfect.
And the rest of us? Nothing brief about them, these lives of ours: so and
so was born. His grandmother befriended him. He hid in lilac bushes. He
called Emma Jean Kendell a bad name. He was angry, then afraid. He loved badly, then well, then both at once. His father disappeared in his own time. A cardinal sang. He went to visit his dying mother, letting himself in with his own key. She is taking a shower. He listens to the water running from another room. It has taken them both forever—all their lives—to get to this point. There’s no way to be brief, no way to get it over quickly.
