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In the late sixties, I spent a year with my then-husband in the apple groves of northern New Mexico, just a few miles from the famous Rio Grande Gorge. Our adobe house had nothing but electricity—no running water, no sanitation—so we had to work hard to survive. That suited me just fine. My husband and I were in our thirties, and like many of our generation, we were trying to find ourselves: I was writing what I loved, and my husband was finishing a dissertation that had long languished in obscurity. But I often felt that any writer ten years younger than me had already accomplished more than I ever could. So I happily spent my time collecting water or cutting wood for the stove.
One day we visited the D. H. Lawrence ranch, ten or fifteen miles north of our home. The ranch, long owned by the University of New Mexico, was now a writer's retreat, and that year a famous author was staying there. He was Henry Roth, author of the 1934 novel Call It Sleep, which I hold in high regard. As we got out of the car, my husband suddenly suggested that we go in to see Roth.
“Oh no!” I replied instantly. “We can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“We will be a nuisance.”
“Nonsense. I'm sure he'll be pleased.”
It was often my habit in those days to say “no” to any proposal, while my eager husband invariably said “yes.” I always believed that I was being sensibly critical in resisting my husband’s unjustified enthusiasm. It had never occurred to me that anxiety might have been the cause of my refusal. That day at the Lawrence ranch, however, my husband’s “yes” prevailed. A tall, friendly-faced woman—Mrs. Roth, as it turned out—opened the door and, in a voice as friendly as her expression, informed us that the Great Man was asleep and that she could not rouse him, but that she wanted to know who we were and where we came from. When we told her where we were staying, she replied that they had heard about the orchard and were hungry for apples. “Come on down and get whatever you want,” said my husband. “How about Sunday,” suggested Mrs. Roth. “All right,” we agreed, and went on our way.
On Sunday morning I woke up, yawned, stretched and said to my husband, “Let’s take a walk through the gorge.”
“We can't do this,” he said. “The companies are coming.”
“Oh, don't be silly,” I said. “They won't come.”
“Of course it will be,” he replied.
“No,” I insisted, “they won’t. I want to go to the gorge.”
An hour later we were already sitting in the car. When we returned late in the afternoon, there was a note on the door. From the Roths, of course. They were sorry we weren't home, were looking forward to our visit, and hoped we wouldn't mind if they picked a whole sack of apples. It seemed as if their feelings were hurt by our absence.
My husband stood there, holding the note in his hand, looking at me as if he saw something new in me. “Why did you do that?” he asked quietly.
It took many years before I could find the answer to this question.
A woman sits alone in her apartment, suffering from loneliness. She has a few friends she could spend an evening with, just pick up the phone and call, but she has seen them all over the past week and can't imagine that any of them would want to see her again so soon. She doesn't call anyone.
At a dinner party, a man takes over the conversation by talking non-stop for nearly ten minutes. He knows he's burning bridges, but he doesn't believe his presence will be remembered, let alone viewed positively, if he stops talking. He keeps talking even as everyone's eyes turn glassy.
Another man, independent and well-off, constantly borrows small, insignificant sums from friends and acquaintances and constantly forgets to return them. No matter how great his privileges, he never feels deprived enough.
I used to have a mentor who was only able to criticize, but never praise. It took me a long time to realize how harsh her assessment of her own abilities was.
When you think about all the unanswered calls, the ignored attentions, the ways others make themselves feel small in our presence or us in theirs, the utter meanness of small everyday encounters…
However, it is also true that the influence
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