Calvin Trillin is one of my favorite writers because he is wry and subversive without being furious. If he were to read his books and essays to me, I would expect him to do so with a sidelong glance and a smirk.

(When I heard he had once been repeatedly reprimanded and finally fired from a columnist job for relegating Christian historical events to the hypothetical - "the alleged Crucifixion" for example - I realized I had found a writer to whom I could consistently turn.)

This brief examination of the woman with whom he spent his life has the cleverness and linguistic snap, but its prevailing tact is affection - unabashed and undying. He and his wife disagreed about a good many things, but both realized how lucky they were, and Trillin's portrayal of Alice compelled me to mourn her absence, for the world is surely a lesser place without people like her, though I did not know her.