Times

Nabokov would probably have been offended, but this story made me all weepy.

Is the solution to just not keep a diary, so you don't feel like a failure at the end of your life? Or is it instead to ignore the implicit judgment in Lars Klove's description of her focus on "tennis, bridge, and the stock market" and read the evidence of how hard it was to be a teenager, and look around at the evidence of a happy marriage, life, and motherhood?