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motivation and self-control might supplement the classical approach.
    But Florence wasn’t interested enough to find out about any of this. And if that was the case, Janine didn’t care to enlighten her.
    “You might be right,” Janine said. “It may be that I’m a member of a dying species.”
    “Oh, come on. Aren’t you willing to fight with me? A little?” Florence said.
    “I’ll fight with you,” Emily said.
    “Oh, good.”
    “She might be a member of a dying species, but isn’t the pot calling the kettle black? You’re a
writer.
You write
books.
”
    “And?”
    “Who reads books anymore?”
    “Plenty of people. Did I tell you that they’re putting out a Kindle edition of my last one? People will be reading me on Kindle.”
    “Are you going to find out where they live and dunk their Kindles into puddles and stuff?”
    “Not if they’re reading my books.”
    “What are you talking about, nobody reads books?” Daniel said to Emily. “You’re reading—what are you reading?”
    “
Middlemarch,
” Emily said.
    “Well?” Daniel said.
    “I’m an unusual girl.”
    Janine ordered another glass of wine and stole a look at her watch. Seeing Florence was always unpleasant. The remarkable thing was that it was always unpleasant in a new way. Maybe this was a tribute to Florence’s character. She always found a way to surprise you.

17
    For hours that night, as she sat at her computer, writing in a state of carpal-tunnel-y churlishness, Florence kept thinking about Daniel and his family. Wondering why she didn’t feel more goodwill toward him. It was as if they weren’t related. There he sat, whenever she saw him, solid and stolid and impenetrable, getting drunk but never showing it, safely moated away from any questions about what the hell he had made of his life.
    And his wife was worse: the eternal ingenue, panting with worshipfulness. Florence, do you write on a computer or a typewriter? Florence, do you write in the mornings or the afternoons? Florence, what did you mean by that colon on page thirty-two of that book you wrote thirty years ago? Why a colon instead of a dash? Really? ’Cause this is what I think it means . . . Florence, did you know Gloria Steinem? Florence, did you know Norman Mailer? Did you ever have an affair with him? I thought all the feminists of your generation had secret affairs with him. Florence, did you meet Emma Goldman? Ulysses S. Grant? Socrates? Jesus? Really, Florence, you never met Jesus? I could’ve sworn he refers to you in the Sermon on the Mount. Not by name, of course, but I thought the reference was pretty obvious. It’s here, on page thirty-two of the New Testament. I mean, why would there be that colon if he wasn’t thinking of you? Have I told you what I think that colon means on page thirty-two of your book?
    The only way to deal with someone like that is to avoid her, and if you can’t avoid her, the only way to deal with her is to attack her. Florence felt slightly bad about going on about brain chemistry—she hadn’t believed a word she was saying—but she needed to do
something
to wipe that oppressive look of adoration off the woman’s face. The look of bafflement and hurt that replaced it was preferable. Florence always loved to talk to intelligent younger people; she was glad that a lot of younger women had liked her books; but she’d never wanted followers, groupies, acolytes, worshippers, “mentees.” Why did my son have to marry such a suck-up?
    The granddaughter wasn’t so bad. She had a little bit of spirit, at least.

18
    Florence was having breakfast with her longtime editor.
    “I’m sorry I had to miss your birthday party,” he said.
    “You didn’t miss much.”
    “It sounds like I missed a lot. I heard about your performance. You’re a new species of human being, Florence. The outrageous old fogey.”
    “What’s new about that? There’s nothing new. I’ve become one of those horrible women who goes around saying