I've run this gorgeous/disturbing portrait before, but, given the subject's own more-than-ambivalent feelings about growing old, it seems an appropriate way to mark the 115th anniversary of the birth of little Dorothy Rothschild, who grew up to be funny, sad, immortal Dorothy Parker.
She was neither a happy nor an easy person, but at her best her writing is still as fresh as wet paint - if comic, it can make you laugh; if sad, it can make you weep. And that's just about as succinct a definition of good writing as I can think of.
I shall go re-read The Waltz to celebrate
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