Robert introduced me to Sylvia Plath and George Bernard Shaw and Oscar Wilde. I’d borrow the books from the library and then discuss them with him after I’d read them. It was inspiring to share his passion. I still remember him sitting on the porch with a blanket over his gaunt knees, his ravaged face alight with joy as he discussed the mordant humor in Shaw and the dark, beautiful imagery in Plath’s poetry. He confided that the gun sculpture in his bedroom was in case the cancer ever got the upper hand, and I never told anyone. Until now.