The joys of love [antikvár]

Introduction I REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME I read The Joys ofL ove. It was 1978 and I was ten, curled up on the couch, listening to the tap-tapping of my grandmother's typewriter keys, and reading—no, devouring—her unpublished manuscript about summer theatre in the 1940s. My nine-year-old sister, Charlotte, was on the opposite end of the couch, eagerly waiting for me to pass the next page to her. We were honored that Gran thought we were mature enough to read this novel, and we had promised to be quiet so that she could write. We had a history of spending time with her while she was working, whether it was at her home, Crosswicks, in northwestern Connecticut, or in the Cathedral Library at St. John the Divine in New York City, where she was the librarian and writer-in-residence. My grandmother lovingly referred to her office above the garage at Crosswicks as an "ivory tower," one in which she could harness her wild, abundant imagination through the craft of writing. In