![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() I was in awe of her brutal precision, her sharp inquiries into the production of stories, her moral wrangling with journalism and biography. I had devoured The Silent Woman in graduate school, and then read everything else. The idea of her in my house, helping with my son’s online schooling-his teacher was reading out “rat facts” during his daily forty-five minutes of Zoom-was so incongruous that it made me laugh.īefore I met Janet, she was the only living writer who terrified me, because I loved her work so much. How can you not be stalled on writing? I wish there was something I could do to help.” Her response warmed me, elevating my state of general stagnancy into something almost socially acceptable. In one of my last email exchanges with Janet Malcolm, in one of the darkest parts of the pandemic, she wrote to me, “I can only try to imagine the hard time you and the children are having. Janet Malcolm and Katie Roiphe in conversation at NYU, 2012. ![]()
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