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 run-
ning 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.