by Roger S. Jones

Roger S. Jones died on April 2, 2011. A note from Louise, his wife, received on April 10 read

My husband Roger S. Jones died a week ago after a whirlwind bout with cancer (three weeks from diagnosis to death). He was so pleased that you were publishing his article. The irony is that he never had the chance to complete the project he wrote about: to collect his writings and e-publish them.

I keep thinking about dying. Not right now, mind you. Just in a general kind of way. And I’m not being morbid either; I’m in no rush. It’s just that at my age, it’s hard not to think about end-of-life matters. It’s certainly not about any funeral or memorial plans. Even less am I concerned with the disposal of my body. In fact, cremation is my choice, and what they do with the remains matters little to me.

Rather, it has something to do with a kind of obligation I feel as I approach the end. Nobody has told me that I must do anything in particular—nobody, that is, except me. But for some reason, I worry about tidying things up and finishing them off. And for the most part that means my writing. My possessions and any money will be disposed of or distributed in a meaningful way according to my will, so I’m not really concerned about that. But what I don’t want is for someone to act as a kind of literary executor for me and make decisions about what to do—if anything—with my growing written output. In truth, I don’t trust anyone to do that job, so I feel I’d better get it done myself. Am I being vain? Perhaps.

by Lawrence Perlman

pensiero

The following remarks were made prior to a reading by Lawrence Perlman at Open Book October 6, 2010, from his novel The Last Layer.

Thank you all so very much for coming. Before I read a few passages from The Last Layer, I thought I would address the question that is more or less on all of your minds: “How did this guy, who spent his life in the real world—as a lawyer, law professor, and CEO—come to write a novel?”

by John Evans

On the surface, it was a straightforward transaction: I retired because I could. The financials, though not ideal, were good enough, the work environment was increasingly unpleasant, and I was anxious to get on to something new. Why not retire? And, having done so, why not just shut the door and move on, instead of rummaging through my actions and motivations, as though I need a stamp of approval on my choice?