I am just returned from a week in the Scottsdale, Arizona sun: 90 degrees, dry, mountains, desert, family, swimming, running, reading. It was perfect. A shout out to my mom, at whose home we crashed for a few days — she loved it — before heading to a resort, The Sanctuary at Camelback, in Paradise

Can a book be grieved? It’s not a person, after all, or a beloved pet, or a plant you’ve cared for and coaxed into bloom each spring. It’s a book. I’ve said before that books are like lovers. Private companions. We take them to bed, tuck them into our bags, panic (as I did) when

Gail Levin’s magnificent Lee Kranser biography was hard to give up and now I know why. Three disappointing reads in a row? John Steinbeck’s “The Winter of Our Discontent” was engaging but cartoon-y, a precursor to all things Updike. Adam Gopnik’s “Winter” essays are — I can’t believe I’m going to use this word for