Missing You: In Memory of Nick Dewar

In my den and a three-piece twill, plying my eyes through this or that—even shallowly, almost—poring over other people's words in print, picking up the scent of the room and the light trace of ink on my fingers, and even the pride of who I am as a person, I reclined into my maroon leather armchair and looked up, asking myself, without speaking, "What's better: That I'm surrounded with hand-picked artifacts of the choicest beauty, or that I'm even in this room to play the part of a man surrounded with hand-picked artifacts of the choicest beauty?"

And then I realized: To be given the chance to ask such a question is perhaps the greatest point of all.