So I'm sitting on the porch of my grandmother's house (she's no longer here), looking out at the lake and the rising light, a wash of soft pink and blue across the sky, the thick line of pines on the opposite shore cast purple-gray. And I'm thinking of the time my agent, who I worship and adore, told me that when she's having a rotten day, she goes to the Museum of Modern Art and sits in the Water Lilies room until she's all right again. In truth, it had never occurred to me that she might...