Almost ten years ago I sent a letter,
and some drawings, to Kurt Vonnegut. He was gracious enough to reply, complimenting me on my drawing skills -- even going so far as to say I was almost as good as Durer -- and skillfully avoiding any mention of collaborating, an idea I had floated in my letter. "When I die," he wrote, "I will be found under a mountain of stuff from other people that I didn't have the balls to throw away." When I die, I can imagine being found underneath the mountain of bowls, vases and serving dishes my family owns. We are, if nothing else, a family of vessels.