You weren’t the one I loved. I must confess: I didn’t have the depth yet. It was Paul, of course— his droopy eyes and putty lips,  babylike, unthreatening, despite the then- brutal sexiness of the songs. When I thought I’d grown up, I loved John, genius rebel, loved how dismissive he was, naked with his thick-haired wife for weeks,  legs and arms wrapped ‘round her,  posed for Leibovitz like a suckling pig. I loved how he’d make a scene, but when I’d busted through my anger, thought I’d found...

Of course, it does. Everyone does.  The sky’s not blue, and the grass— well—even in your first language,  green wears a different name, ...

originally published in Vox Populi “The supreme quality of beauty being a light from another world,”  Stephen Dedalus in James Joyce’s...