PARIS WITHOUT HER

An aching memoir of life as a widower.

She was a striking vision of beauty and intelligence, writes former Texas Monthly editor Curtis about his first glimpse of Tracy, who would become his wife, at the magazine’s office in 1974. “I still know precisely what I was thinking at that moment—nothing. I couldn’t think,” he recalls. Eventually, he came up with the words to woo her—but that comes later, for the author’s next memory is of Tracy as she passed away nearly 40 years later, felled by cancer caused by her history as “a defiant smoker.” The first injury after his tragic loss came in the form of an officious minister who contradicted Curtis’ eulogy by citing Tracy’s fear. “She didn’t want to die,” he writes, “but that’s not the same thing as being afraid.” Clearly, she loved life, especially time spent in her beloved Paris. A second injury involved the ministrations of “well-meaning acquaintances” struggling to say something useful: “They want to show their concern, so they trap you and ask a series of questions—always the same ones—which you have had to answer time and again with other casual acquaintances in similar situations.” Curtis returned to Paris to visit the places the couple loved, but he also branched out to make discoveries of his own and, bravely, enrolled in language classes with students a third his age. His genially learned evocations of Paris are somewhat more lightly worn than those of Adam Gopnik’s Paris to the Moon, but they’re just as informative. Though readers will feel Curtis’ pain, they will also share his joy—and perhaps relief—at being in a place both beautiful and anonymous. “Paris was not at all hostile, but Paris didn’t care whether I was there or not,” he writes, finding comfort as a stranger in places both familiar and unknown.

For those suffering from bereavement, a candid, moving book of commiseration and encouragement.