I am reading a New Yorker article about a poet who loses his son and the size of his hurt and sadness is unimaginable. But there is an aspect of his experience I understand. For a time after his son died this poet could not read. Me neither, not a novel nor a poem nor even very much of an article. I could manage the narrative of, say, a J Crew catalog but otherwise pages were turned by my hand without their contents first being absorbed and I had no idea I was doing this until, halfway through, I would realize I hadn’t the slightest idea what the book was about. Who was I when I couldn’t read? I have no idea about that either. I didn’t know that Diane.