The Florist's Daughter

I've written elsewhere in this blog about the magnificent Patricia Hampl, whose various memoirs have elevated the genre, and whose thinking about memory and imagination is required reading for anyone hoping to pin truth to the page. I've taught her essays and I've learned from them, and last fall I won the review lottery when the Chicago Tribune asked for my opinion on the author's latest, The Florist's Daughter. She's made a difference in my life, this writer—in practice and in theory, from a distance.

Last night, thanks to the generosity of Karl Kirchwey, Libby Mosier, and Bryn Mawr College, I had the privilege of listening to Patricia read in a hall so grand she felt, she said, as if she were on the verge of being knighted. I sat while she fielded questions with humility and grace. And then I joined a really lovely group of people for a round-tabled dinner, in which Patricia proved herself to be that rare breed: as human and dignified and smart in real life as she has always been on the page.

Here's to memory and imagination, then. Here's to ahi tuna and bundt cake and to a writer who reaches past herself in the interest of others—with interest in others, with that sort of wanting-to-know that defines our greatest.