In Slate, Laura Miller writes about Jill Ciment’s upcoming memoir. It opens like this:

Jill Ciment met her husband of 45 years, the painter Arnold Mesches, when he was her art teacher. He was 47; she was 17. The year was 1970, a time when, in the bohemian California circles the pair frequented, people prized sexual liberation over what they often viewed as mere propriety. Even so, her mother called Mesches a “pervert,” and Ciment and Mesches initially hid their relationship from many of their acquaintances and colleagues.

And yet, and yet. Somehow this improbable—and in contemporary eyes, inexcusable—bond led to a long and very happy marriage. 

The article is a thoughtful piece on consent, age differences, memory, and how to assess the relationship in hindsight, after decades of happiness. The article is excellent, full of little challenges to the established ways of thinking of these things. In the words of Miller, “…every categorical declaration and moral certainty eventually winds up at war with the story of some real individual”.

It’s a great piece and will linger long after you’ve finished it.

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