A Very Nice Little Story

If you know the name, William Shawn by something somewhat more than as it
was taken, for his person to be portrayed by Bob Balaban in *Capote*, then
like as not you'll fairly recall with no untoward degree of fondness a'tall,
an acquaintance with the work of many another writer on Shawn's staff as
well, such as that of his dearly beloved paramour of so many years, Miss
Lillian Ross . . .

http://mediabistro.com/content/archives/02/07/01/

From http://partners.nytimes.com/books/first/r/ross-here.html

Here but Not Here
A Love Story
By LILLIAN ROSS
Random House

AS WE WERE

All enduring love between two people, however startling or
unconventional, feels unalterable, predestined, compelling, and
intrinsically normal to the couple immersed in it, so I would have to say
that I had an intrinsically normal life for over four decades with William
Shawn, the late editor of The New Yorker. We loved each other. We remained
in love with each other until the day he died, unexpectedly, on December 8,
1992. We signed off every telephone call, every casual parting, every "good
night"--including that of the night before his death--with "I love you."
From the first instance of his open declaration of love, Bill Shawn
continued to say it and to make me feel his love. I learned to respond with
the same word. "Love" isn't a word I take lightly or tire of today.

My life became both turbulent and magical as it changed from my initial
role as a single-minded reporter and writer into what became everything else
I was alive for. I started out seemingly unsuited to be entrusted with my
additional role. But I wound up possessing it, and with it, I was given the
greatest satisfaction I know of. I have a lasting sense of the normalcy of
it all. It was a normalcy that Bill Shawn was able to create for himself and
for me against all normal odds.

Our life together did not feel ordinary, however. Bill Shawn was
incapable of engaging in the ordinary. He was incapable of imagining the
ordinary, whether he was composing a passage to be incorporated into a
writer's story for The New Yorker, or a gift card, or a poem, or a letter of
love. He was deeply romantic, and in giving voice to his feelings in
traditional ways, he managed to say "I love you" so that it sounded fresh.
He was my steady collaborator, both personally, in the life we made
together, and professionally, from the time I was a young writer on his
magazine. Since his death, my understanding of him and my wonder at him have
broadened, and I find that our feelings for each other are still having
their say. They touch and affect every aspect of my work and of my actions,
including the telling of this story. I see it whole. And I see it in focus.

The scene is our living room:

It is a beautiful, mild, early September afternoon in 1987. Bill is in
his seventies. I am in my sixties. He is quite bald, with a dark,
substantial fringe of hair, carefully barbered, at the base of his skull. My
hair is silver, curly, and cut short. We have similar faces--round, with
high coloring. His eyes are pure light blue; mine are green. It is about six
months after he left his job at The New Yorker and I went with him. We are
in the apartment we found together about thirty years earlier, in a then
brand-new building. It is on the twelfth floor; this had been our joint
choice, notwithstanding his lifelong claustrophobia, his fear of heights,
and his terror in most elevators, He lived "within limits," he would say. He
had never been able to fly in a plane. On a highway, he once explained to
me, he had to be sure there was an exit nearby. If he was caught in a
traffic jam, he would grow silent and rigid. Once, when we were in a car,
halted in bumper-to-bumper traffic on a road in New York City's Central
Park, we had to get out and walk to the street. He would say he could not go
outside in a heavy storm, rain or snow, or in a deep freeze. I discovered
that he was able, surprisingly, to stretch his limits.

Our apartment is located about half a mile south of the one he lives in
with his wife, Cecille. They were married in 1928, the day after he turned
twenty-one. By 1958, when Bill and I chose this apartment, we had already
been together, in other rooms, for several years. He and I had agreed we
would not keep our liaison a secret from Cecille. When Bill told her about
it, they talked for weeks, and then for months, with each other--an
agonizing time for both of them--and then she made her unshakable decision:
she would stay in the marriage, and he would make the logistical
arrangements with her that our life together called for. Now, in 1987, Bill
and Cecille have three grown children, and I have a son in his last year of
college to whom, since his birth, Bill has been like a devoted parent. He
has never considered divorcing his wife, and I have never considered asking
him to. Whatever the circumstances in his marriage, Bill not only worried
about Cecille, he loved her and would go on loving her, but he felt driven
to make his life with me, and I have never doubted that this place has been
our home.

Since we no longer have an office at The New Yorker to go to, we are
spending a good deal of time together alone in the apartment. We have tried
working in a nearby library and in a friend's office, but mostly we like
being at home, which looks much the same as it has for years. Bill has
always decorated our rooms, and I defer to him completely in matters of
taste. Our first piece of furniture, a Danish teakwood rocking chair, is in
this living room, which is large, sunny, bright, and simple, with picture
windows at one end. We are looking out at a clear sky of pale blue, the
color he loved. A beige-silk-upholstered sofa is against a wall, with lamps
beside it.

A Steinway upright in ebony, with matching chair, stands against the
opposite wall. Bill's brown leather briefcase, scuffed and bulging, rests,
unopened, in a corner of the sofa. Bookshelves are filled with classics:
Bill's favorites--Turgenev, Proust, Joyce, Jefferson, Fitzgerald, Shelley,
Musil. My favorites include Gogol, Keats, Kafka, and Salinger. We have
old-fashioned record albums along with CDs, and we play a lot of Duke
Ellington, the Modern Jazz Quartet, and Mozart.

Between the books and the records stands a framed color photograph of
Bill, taken in 1966, sitting on our sofa with his arm around my son, Erik,
barefoot, at age five months; Bill is wearing tortoiseshell glasses, and he
is reading The New Yorker to Erik. The photograph is one of the scores of
photographs I've taken of them with a Leica Reflex camera given to me by
Bill. Every time I pick up this camera, I think of how he said, as he handed
it to me, that I should record for both of us what only I might see.

On the shelves are a few elegant items: an antique Chinese vase of a
light shade of blue matching the color of Bill's eyes (he brought it back
from a quick trip to Chicago, his hometown); a French porcelain teapot circa
1800 (one of his rare extravagances). A round dining table, covered with a
white lacy cloth, is set with an English floral teapot and matching cups and
saucers. Bill has always loved observing the custom of afternoon tea.
Delicate Italian chairs of cherry wood and cane are at the table. The
table's centerpiece is a basket of pale yellow tea roses, which Bill sends
over regularly. Thirty-seven years earlier, he gave me similar flowers in a
similar basket for the first time, saying that he wanted to call our
friendship by its right name: love.

At that time, I found the flowers and what he said surprising and
disconcerting. I found them frightening. I didn't want to recognize their
meaning.

On this September afternoon in 1987, Bill is wearing a dark-blue
cashmere suit with matching vest, a blue-and-white checked shirt, a
dark-blue knitted tie. He is slightly built, high-complexioned, a bit
paunchy around the middle, somewhat round-shouldered, and short (about five
six), and he has big feet, encased in plain black shoes. Most of the time,
whatever the season, he feels cold. On hot days, when most men are in
shirtsleeves, he wears his usual warm dark-blue cashmere three-piece suit.
About twenty years ago, he would wear a brown tweed suit, or a cotton
seersucker suit in the heat of a New York summer, but now he stays with dark
blue the year around. Outdoors, well before the onset of winter and into
late spring, he wears a heavy alpaca-lined-and-collared coat, a muffler, and
heavy gloves. Over his vest he wears a dark-green cashmere sleeveless
sweater. He wears the same battered and soiled felt hat the year around,
including steaming August days. (I gave the hat to him at least a dozen
years earlier.)

The picture windows look out across a wide street to a red brick
apartment house. Both of us like to look at what is going on in that house.
Children are jumping on a bed in one apartment; in another, a fat black
woman in a white uniform is sitting in a window, smoking a cigar; in still
another, a middle-aged man in tights is doing aerobics in front of a
television screen. A clock on a bookshelf near our piano indicates the
time--almost four o'clock. It is the hour Bill loves. He calls it the hour
of hope. For him, it conjures up romantically dressed and happy men, women,
and children seated at a round table on a green lawn next to an English
garden and having scones with large helpings of sweet butter and jam. We
have gone often to the nearby Carlyle Hotel for afternoon tea, freshly
brewed and served on English china, but we have not been able to conjure up
any green lawn and garden there.

Bill sits down at the piano. I'm in our treasured rocking chair, wearing
light-blue chambray jeans, a white tennis shirt, and sandals. I feel no need
to dress up. Whatever I wear, I always feel his approval. I'm relaxed and
comfortable, and I'm happy just looking at him. At this moment, everything
in our room here feels right. I'm deeply aware, as always, of my own
happiness to be with him. I don't take this moment for granted, perhaps
because over the years we have had to face and conquer so many threats and
challenges to our being together. At any rate, for more than half my life
now, I have never taken our moments together for granted. Every time we are
about to rejoin each other after having been apart--whether for a few
minutes or a few hours or a few days--I'm aware of my eagerness to see him
again, and I'm aware of how happy I feel every time I catch sight of him.
From time to time, we compare notes with each other on this not-so-unusual
shared manifestation, and neither one of us feels foolish expressing it.
We've never wearied of trying out our thoughts on each other. This living
room has been serene and beautiful for us, and I constantly feel privileged
to be in it. In fact, every time I enter this room, I continue--to the
present--to think of how Bill, on the day we moved in, brought flowers and
said, "Blessings on this house."

Bill warms up at the piano by playing a little boogie-woogie. He plays
by ear; he's never learned to read music. I go from the rocking chair to the
sofa, the better to hear what he will do today. Abruptly, he stops playing.
He turns to me.

He tells me that his feelings used to overwhelm him, and he couldn't
talk, or say with his music what he felt. But now he feels free. Then he
turns back to the piano and swings into his particular rendition of "In a
Sentimental Mood," by Duke Ellington. Bill has told me that it was
Ellington's own favorite song. We often play a recording of it, with John
Coltrane on saxophone, that is, Bill says, the purist Ellington.

He has told me many things over the years about Ellington, including
that he said, "If it sounds good, it is good." When Duke Ellington died, in
1973, Bill went to see him laid out at the Walter Cooke Funeral Home,
located then at the corner of Third Avenue and East Eighty-fifth Street, a
few blocks away from our apartment. He took me along and also my son, who
was then seven years old. It was the first visit any of us had ever paid to
a funeral home. We stood, silent and awed, for a long time, looking at Duke
Ellington's body lying in a white satin-lined coffin and dressed in white
tails. After that, we went home, where Bill sat down at the piano. Trying
not to weep in front of the child, Bill played one Ellington number after
the other--"In a Sentimental Mood," "Do Nothing Till You Hear from Me," "The
jeep Is Jumpin'," "Sophisticated Lady," "Tough Truckin'," "Prelude to a
Kiss," and many others. Then, when Bill finally broke down and everybody was
weeping, we played Ellington recordings very loudly for the entire evening.

Bill does not try to imitate Duke Ellington while playing the piano; he
has his own style--hunched over the keyboard, rigid, almost tortured,
hitting the piano keys and pumping the pedals vigorously. He looks very
serious. He makes some mistakes and tightens up. He has strong hands, with
long, tapered fingers and well-kept short fingernails. At the piano this
afternoon, he pumps his feet energetically on the pedals. He starts playing
Gershwin's "Someone to Watch Over Me," turning his head to look at me. We
both smile. He turns to the piano again, looking somewhat absent. He stops
playing and comes over and sits down next to me.

William Shawn was known to the world for half a century as the famous
and revered editor of a famous and revered magazine. He was that, of course.
To me, though, he became the man I loved, and a man whose individual,
creative gifts were obscured and thwarted by his success. He was a tormented
man, a man who had the desires of a poet but the duties of a caretaker, and
of a muse, of poetics. By the time I met him, in 1945, when I began to write
for The New Yorker, he had become responsible for the writers and artists
around him, to the exclusion of his own creative impulses. He would often
say that he felt he did not "exist." He felt eternally designated to serve
others in their endeavors; at the same time he struggled to hold on to, as
he put it, "a fading belief in my own reality." He was, in short, oddly
cursed by his great gift for making it possible for others to communicate
their art, for he, was never able to give that gift to himself.

Almost anonymously, he poured his unique literary and comic gifts into
the work of dozens of famous writers and artists, finding ways of concealing
himself in them. His attentiveness to the needs of others went far beyond
the concerns of a committed editor. For many people he came to represent all
that defined a true and ideal editor. To me, he was a man who grieved over
all living creatures but did not know how to grieve over himself, who seemed
to know how to fight in behalf of others for the things they wanted or
deserved but was baffled, and at times, wistful, about his inability to
fight for himself.

He felt imprisoned by his job--he once described it to me as "the
ultimate cell--but he did not know how to fight free of it. Eventually, he
spoke to me about himself with detachment and without self-indulgence. "Who
has blotted me out?" he would ask softly and, it seemed to me, chillingly.
In his face I saw a hunger for gaiety and humor. Seeing and sensing this, I
didn't feel called upon at first to respond with anything beyond my writing;
what I was in love with was reporting and writing. I could make him laugh
with that. When I had written a story for him that I knew in my bones would
delight him, his serious, youthful face would come alive, starting with
stifled laughter that gradually broke out of control into a kind of
apppreciative cry. That was enough for me. I didn't think I would be asked
for anything more.

"I am there, but I am not there," Bill said over and over again, about
his married life. The first time, early in the 1950s, that I heard this
statement, I accepted it. He said he yearned for freedom, for fresh air, for
lightheartedness, for warmth. I accepted his telling me that he felt
enclosed, imprisoned, often intolerably, by his job, among other things.
However, I found myself resisting the responsibility of understanding this.
He wanted what he called a "sign" from somebody who might fight for his
staying alive, for protecting him. He clutched tenaciously and desperately
at that possibility. In his own way, he battled courageously for it, and yet
he didn't know how to ask anyone for that "sign." Then he began to speak
with abandon to me.

"I am there, but I am not there." I might wonder if this was the key to
his entire being: his feeling of being enclosed, trapped. But how could I
measure it? How could I judge it? It was what he said, what he was living.
He never saw himself in a contradiction. It was literally the way he saw
himself. I never doubted anything he told me. I was never a woman who
arrogated to herself the right to analyze, to intrude upon, or to direct
what another person was feeling. I never did that in my writing about
people; I always wanted to trust the facts and let them reveal the truth. I
accepted what Bill told me. His terror of imprisonment was like a waking
nightmare.

In the beginning, I may have sensed his unspoken plea for release from
his terror, but I did not understand it. Nor did I have to understand it. I
was not looking for any emotional response other than to my writing. I
wanted to keep my emotions focused on my writing. At The New Yorker, like
the other staff members, I was engaged in creating stories that were mine
and mine alone. My social life was mostly in a separate area, with other
people, and I guarded my writing territory from all of that.

I did not know, before I found myself enmeshed--more and more deeply
over the years--in a full life with Bill Shawn, where being loved by Bill
Shawn would take me. There was never a blueprint. Where indeed it took me
was unprecedented--in my experience there had never been such happiness. And
I would never love anyone else as I would learn to love him.

With his love, Bill would give me what then became my life--his daily,
improbable being, his friendship, his understanding, his observations, his
ideas, his response to writing, his humor, his support, his warm comfort.
Together we would seek out the rocking chair, the china, the towels, the
scores of material things for our home. Together, we would face and fumble
with all the intangibles in the pleasure of being alive. Over four decades,
we stayed together as a couple. We stayed together as we found and raised a
child. We shared the child. We shared our work. We shared our home. We
shared our thoughts. I never fully stopped being a writer, but he enabled me
to become also, in effect if not in name, a wife to him and then, with a
child, a mother. I don't think I missed anything. And miraculously, he told
me, I was able to give him a measure of "belief" in his own "reality," as
well as freedom and some release from his "cell." I would go on long drives
on a highway with him, when time would be suspended, and he would not seem
to care about the exact distance from an exit. I would go with him to see a
show--in particular, Pacific Overtures--and emerge, still warmly lost in the
show, into a below-zero night, historically one of the coldest of that year
(1976), without a flinch. Whatever flowed between us and gave us warmth made
us both feel fully alive.

We were drawn to each other from the first by all the elusive forces
that people have been trying to pin down from the beginning of time. When,
by the early 1950s, we were committed to each other--never to change--we
tried once or twice to pin them down for ourselves, but as both of us were
constitutionally resistant to theorizing, we gave up, merging with each
other instead in our physical joy and pleasure, and in laughter.

Our communication over our joint work may have been one point of
departure for what happened. But it was only one. When Bill took it further,
his undisguised emotional expression of what he found in me was initially
terrifying. I felt: Not me, for God's sake! I want to keep my mind on my
writing I was probably as far as it's possible to be from embodying the
femme fatale. And with Bill Shawn's wife and children belying "there but not
there"--even though to him this contradiction was a statement of fact, and
he made it seem so to me--there were complications stemming from the fact.
It would not be an acceptable fact to my family or to a court of law or to
the pope. The complications were too much for me to handle. I tried to run
away from it, and I took off for California. I remained there, away from
him, for about a year and a half. But that simply didn't work. The odds may
have been against our being together, but my attempt at not being together
turned out to be doomed.

As was well known, Bill Shawn spent years in working harmony with scores
and scores of renowned writers, artists, editors, publishers, agents, and
colleagues. Many people looked to him almost worshipfully to help them
realize and express their talent. The greatest beneficiaries of Bill's
attention were the writers. For at least fifty years, he worked closely with
some of the most sensitive, perceptive, talented, and sophisticated writers
anywhere in the world. He lunched with them and sat with them for hours
going over their manuscripts. He was their friend; he tried to be what he
called "a giver of compassion and understanding." They accepted the
compassion and understanding--and they gloried in his creative and material
help. They knew him in a certain way. "I write for you," his authors would
say to him. They all said the same words: "I write for you." He would look
embarrassed when they said it to him. If someone he didn't think was a
wonderful writer said it to him, he would look doubly embarrassed. All
writers gratefully took what he gave them. He didn't reveal to them what
this effort cost him. "They do not question my peculiarities" is how he put
it.

Some of the writers who did not question his "peculiarities" loved Bill
for his total dedication to their writing. He tried to keep his dedication
unspoiled by his sharp awareness--in the case of a few--of intolerable
egotism, of ruthless opportunism, of special pleading, of greed, of descent
into mediocrity. "They are unfortunate," he would say thoughtfully. Although
he kept his sharpness and his skepticism under total control, he usually
sensed the truth of everybody around him.

By his own choice, and whatever the toll to himself, including life
itself, he tuned in to the deepest wishes of others and tried to give them
what they wanted. "Unpleasant" was his strongest word for what he felt about
the character of the few who repelled him. He was usually able to reject
writing that was unacceptable for one reason or another, but once in a
while, in order to protect the feelings of a writer, he would buy a piece,
pay the writer, and hold the work in the "bank" for years. He bought and
published work of a couple of writers he felt personally sorry for. His
rationalization in these instances was always one that essentially satisfied
him. It was on a plane that I did not fully grasp until I had lived with him
for many years. It went something like this: "Every human being is as
valuable as every other human being, and it is important to me not to hurt
this person." To Bill Shawn, every life was sacred. I would occasionally
question him about the subject, about what seemed to be the issue of
"honesty." He was never perturbed. He would always preface his answer by
saying "It's very complicated, but in the deepest way ..."

Although Bill would devote days and nights to helping his writers and
artists with personal problems of every imaginable kind, he never encouraged
people to get into his own personal life. His oldest friends somehow knew he
had marked a line beyond which he did not wish them to step. He was on a
first-name basis with a few longtime friends in his office, but he had
difficulty in addressing most people by their first names. Their addressing
him as "Mr. Shawn" was fine with him. His manner was the same with
everybody--genuinely democratic and respectful. His courtesy to all
visitors--escorting them out of his office and to the elevator--became
legendary. He would see anybody, including all job seekers, who wrote asking
for an appointment. Away from the office, he usually kept to the same mode.
To everybody on his staff he was courteous, considerate, and tolerant. He
never raised his voice. He almost never permitted himself to reveal rage. He
kept his distance from other people by keeping the concentration on them.
All of his writers experienced his intense and immediately sympathetic
attention to them. Everyone noticed his unmistakable intelligence, and
everyone soaked up his unmistakable affection,

When Bill and I became a couple, his way of distancing himself from
other people turned out to be a useful framework for us. People left us
alone. From the beginning to the end of our years together, we usually had
no need to be with anyone else. Neither he nor I needed to talk to other
people about our life together. People in the office were our friends, some
closer than others, but mostly Bill and I wanted to be alone with each
other. We never tired of this self-imposed isolation; we liked it that way.
Occasionally, we might have dinner at a restaurant with another couple, or
go with others to the theatre or to listen to jazz. But neither of us seemed
to need a "social life." In fact, we couldn't understand why other couples
needed a regular pattern of "doing things" in groups. Bill and I seemed
perpetually interested only in being with each other.

After a while, our colleagues got to know about us. They saw us arrive
at the office together. They saw us leave together. They saw us together at
the theatre, at concerts, on the city's streets, in the park. They saw us
going into our house and coming out of our house. If they gossiped about us,
we didn't hear it. Most people seemed to honor our privacy.

About himself, Bill spoke to me unhistrionically and quietly, with
detachment, and without self-indulgence. "Why am I more ghost than man?" he
would ask softly. Over the years, he asked me time and again, "Do you know
who I am?" He spoke in his usual gentle tone. At the end of one of our
leisurely, time-free Saturday afternoons together, he might say, "Please do
not let me forget my own life." And occasionally he might add, "It's someone
else's life that I have lived."

He loved gaiety and innocence and joy and sexy women, preferably
Europeans, and he longed for the earthiest and wildest kinds of sexual
adventures. He was, as I said, romantic. His favorite words were "magical"
and "enchanting." He was drawn to all forms of humor, especially writing
that made him laugh, and he contributed his astonishing talents to making
the work of others more telling in every way, preferably funnier. While he
admired erudition, he reveled in comedy, and writing and comic art that made
him laugh. He reveled in S. J. Perelman, and he was sent soaring by J. D.
Salinger and Ian Frazier and Joe Mitchell and Ed Koren and Roz Chast and
William Steig. Drawings by Saul Steinberg or Sempe rendered him almost mute
with awe. Eagerly, he sought out old-time vaudeville comics, such as Willie
Howard and Smith and Dale. He was at one with Groucho Marx as well as with
Buster Keaton. He tried always to watch the English comic Benny Hill on
television. He went for classic Jewish joke-telling. Myron Cohen, he would
say, had the best dialect of the lot. When we watched Myron Cohen appearing
on the Johnny Carson show, Bill's entire body would pulse with delight,
especially when Cohen would affect his special heavy-lidded, phony
"elegance" in the ethnic accent. In the 1960s, we went repeatedly to see the
Beyond the Fringe foursome on Broadway. Bill could be restored by Richard
Pryor. I went with him to see Spinal Tap several times. He waited eagerly
for theatrical or cinematic glimpses of Walter Matthau and Zero Mostel and
Robin Williams in any role. He was both knocked out by and inspired by the
subtle, inimitable humor of Ralph Richardson and Alec Guinness. He was drawn
to show business in general--to all musical comedy, from Busby Berkeley
movies to Comden and Green concoctions to anything touched by composers from
Cole Porter to Stephen Sondheim. We went half a dozen times to see Laurence
Olivier on the stage in The Entertainer, and as many times again to see it
with Olivier on the screen.

Bill Shawn's deepest satisfactions, however, were listening to and
playing jazz. He responded with every muscle in his body to jazz. He knew
and loved classical music, but the music closest to his heart was the
popular music that lent itself to jazz improvisation. He had his own way,
privately and seriously, of admiring intellectuality. He rejoiced in
beautiful art, beautiful writing, and beautiful thinking. He liked
Kierkegaard and Proust and Musil, but he worshiped Duke Ellington.

All his life, even as a child, Bill Shawn felt and feared his own death.
It was always with him. When he was still in his forties or fifties, he
would awaken in surprise that he was still alive. "I'm still here," he would
say in the morning, imparting the observation seriously and undramatically.
In his later years, he occasionally philosophized about why we want to go on
living, despite suffering, despite pain, despite disappointment. By then he
was revealing in the way he looked, the way he walked, the way he laughed,
that he was doing just that, wanting to live, living. I didn't have to talk
about that one with him. It was because of everything he had opened me up to
in life that I was able in some measure to make my return in kind.

Although he feared dying, he had often felt suicidal, he told me. Many
times when we were reunited, after a night apart, the first thing that he
mentioned to me was the "punishment" he had to endure because of the pain he
had inflicted on Cecille. He would say that suicide was in his mind. But he
fought against it. "I'm trying to hack my way out of this despair," he would
say.

Overwhelming all else was Bill's feeling that he did not exist. "Who has
declared me null and void?" he would ask me politely. He was a clear and
logical thinker. If he did not exist, there was nothing to reveal to people.
For years, he kept his agonies and his occasional hopes secret.

This was the man I loved.

(C) 1998 Lillian Ross All rights reserved. ISBN: 0-375-50119-3

--
Mackie
http://whosenose.blogspot.com
http://www.mackiemesser.zoomshare.com/0.html

"There is no spectacle on earth more appealing than that of a beautiful
woman in the act of cooking dinner for someone she loves." Tom Wolfe




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