There are forty stairways in the house; this is one: thirteen steps that terminate… at the ceiling. You might think it a stairway that leads nowhere. You might think it for those unimpeded by physical barriers. You might think it a joke. Or, if you climb the stairs and find

Mr. Chekhov says, “ A gun in the first act must go off in the third”. But what if it’s a one-act play? Or… what if you are in the third act of your life, and the gun - or guns - went off in the first? What then? There,

Why? Why would the sole resident of a perfectly accommodating California farmhouse transform it into a sprawling, seven-story mansion of six-hundred rooms, forty stairways, at least as many fireplaces, three elevators, thousands of windows, two ballrooms, and a séance parlor? Why? This is the question I most often am asked,