With a broken-down oven, in a hotel kitchen, on an uninhabited island
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In 1975 I came to love Faye Henry. She was thirty-five years older than I and necessary for my mother, who had no friends at Harvard until she and Faye Henry fell asleep together in the back of “Practicum in Ethnographic Futures Research,” knew they were destined to be friends, and have been ever since.
Here’s a box of our best: some of the most interesting words we’ve printed about love and relationship over the past eight years — some of it’s nutty, some of it’s bittersweet, maybe you’ll find the cherry.
I don’t like what I see around me: people with big cars, four bedroom houses and mobile homes and closets full of clothes. I don’t want to know I am one of the people who have so much in a world of people who have so little.
I don’t think when people get divorced it is necessarily a failure of the marriage, I think sometimes it is a finishing, a completing of the marriage. That you sometimes have worked out all the things that you can work out together.
An acceptance, a sacred and beautiful covenant, a vehicle for going to God
Since three-fifths of all American divorces begin in a kitchen spat, the housewife should familiarize herself with the kinds of lethal weapons she uses in the kitchen, and be on guard for their potential misapplications.