When my children were little, they used to think that my grandparents’ apartment was New York. My kids could take or leave the rest of the city, and whether we stayed with my grandparents, or elsewhere, for them, Apartment 7H—those bookshelf-lined rooms and the absurdly uncomfortable Stickley furniture Norman was so proud of, and the chair situated in just exactly the right spot for Norman to sit and stare off into the distance as he blasted his classical records—was it . That was New York. And