Pushkin.

So our story actually begins a couple of decades ago.

At a dinner party, thrown by a really rich guy in snowmass Colorado.

He'd invited a bunch of his friends plus two younger women he didn't really know.

One was a writer who happened to be in town.

Rebecca Solnit.

It was this glam house that looked like a Ralph Lauren ad with the keylimbs and wood burning

stove and rusticity, you know, some sort of luxury, roughing it, fantasy, vacation home.

And it was mostly older people and clearly people who were wealthy and powerful and thought

of themselves as important.

And we were both about 40 and were clearly like the young Anshin news in the room.

Rebecca had gone to Colorado to visit her friend Sally.

Sally had talked her into going to this party and the point of the party was to make Rebecca

feel ignored.

At least that's how she felt.

The host hardly said a word to her until they were about to leave.

And then came over to us and said to me, so I hear you've written a couple of books.

And at that point, how many books did you written?

I think seven, which is not technically a couple.

And so I said several actually and he said, oh, and what are they about in this already

intensely patronizing town?

My most recent one had been about Edward Moibridge and Moibridge's transformation of photography

...