My father, a psychologist, spent the last three decades of his life writing what he called his Book of Love. In it he planned to indisputably define what love was and what it wasn’t; to tell people how to love and how to avoid heartbreak, all in an accessible, pop-psychology format that would produce a legacy of bestseller royalties. When he died, in 1995, and I sorted through his papers, eager to unearth the great work and, perhaps, posthumously publish it, I found a couple of old manuscripts that had been rejected by publishers back in the 1970s. And beyond that, nothing but notes — boxes and boxes and file drawers and desk drawers and closets and bookshelves and kitchen cabinets filled with notes. All expressing his passionate and prodigious hatred. Largely of me.
And then she starts talking about the books! And here I am left wondering about that relationship.