In Times Square, in the middle of Manhattan, I make my way into the huge Marriott Marquis hotel. I step into a glass elevator, which hangs on the outside of a column in the huge atrium. While we ascend, I get views of different worlds.
On a rainy morning in early January, the two of us descend into the catacombs beneath Princeton’s Firestone Library to read the most famous sealed library archive in the world.
My mother is the chief curator of our family’s museum. She carefully monitors our past. Fortunately.