Anne Goldman

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When I was a girl, my father’s behavior in the Boston suburb where we lived struck me as weird. His volatility was embarrassing. His emotionalism was out of place. He was a Rachmaninoff cadence where everyone else played Mozart, a medieval gargoyle perched atop a Lutheran church, a mai tai in the midst of the odorless, colorless gin and tonics that were Boston’s favorite drink. -- from Stargazing in the Atomic Age: Essays