Perhaps you know the work of one of my favorite authors, Calvin Trillin. He is often described as a journalist. But I think of him as a master essayist.He frequently included his wife, Alice, in his work. He wrote about their adventures big and small, and about their life together. Alice and I this, and Alice and I that. He not only writes about their adventures, but delights in writing about Alice’s reactions and opinions and responses. As one reads Trillin, a careful observer comes to discover that, in fact, she is the central character. It’s all about Alice. All of it. He is either writing about her or not, but he is always writing for Alice.
He admits this in one of his later books on the dedication page. I cannot quote it verbatim, but it was something like:
I wrote this for Alice. In fact, I write everything for Alice.
Personally, I like to believe this is true. He wrote everything for Alice. And, if anyone else was interested in what he had to say, well, that was a bonus.
Anyway, a few years ago, Alice died. You can imagine the response from his loyal readers. He quoted from some of their condolence letters in a subsequent book, called About Alice. I found one comment particularly memorable. A woman wrote to Trillin and said that she asks herself: Does my boyfriend love me? And, will he love me like Calvin loves Alice?
A high bar indeed.