“I have a thing about last meals. Not as in prisoners about to be executed-they know it’s going to be their last. But as in just about everyone else, most of us. Whatever’s coming, there’s going to be that last thing we eat.. Though it’s an impossible proposition, I try to take life that way, too: every bite my last.”
In our nice stone house- three bedrooms, huge yard sloping to willow-wept water, one-car garage- we thought of ourselves as of modest means. Because across the pond, on what was called the High Side, there loomed an immutable example of what it was to be truly rich: a mansion the size of an embassy.
Despite months and then years and even decades of conjecture and investigation and conspiracy theory, answers were not forthcoming. The sorrow and disbelief (some say madness) on Sylphide’s veil shadowed face in the famous photo of her standing at his [Dabney] graveside in New Castle England- well it still haunts me, haunts everyone, the closing visual bracket on an era that begins with John-John Kennedy saluting at the graveside of his dad.
*On a semi-related note, I
might go will go to BEA (Book Expo America) 2013.
Review copy provided by the publisher via Netgalley