It started with my father's death. At least, that was how it seemed at the time. Now, looking back, I realize how impossible it is to be sure where anything really begins; or, for that matter, where, or even whether, it has ended.
I was alone at our apartment in Manhattan for the weekend. My wife, Sara, was in Chicago checking out a couple of young artists who were exhibiting there. She had her own gallery downtown in TriBeCa and a reputation for bringing new talent to the attention of a sophisticated market at just the right time. It was Sunday evening and I'd spent the day alone, trying to work up an idea for a new book. I...