Your affection for real life and for what people will tell you and how shocking I don’t mean shocking-shocking – no what’s the word I’m looking for - it’s astonishing - the real story is when you get on the subway and wonder what the story’s going to be and then you find out what it is, it is never anything you could have conceived of.” I always kept saying, you can’t make this stuff up. I actually believed there was such a thing as the truth. So it was just beyond fun to do it! And I so believed in, you know, things like The Truth. “There’s a freedom to it because it makes you a much better reporter. “But it means that you have freedom!” Ephron enthused. Where nobody wanted to talk to you, because they could talk to the Times instead.”Īs I write for the younger and cuter but less established daily newspaper we commiserated about being the upstart underdogs. Or they aren’t willing to talk to you, which was what my experience was at the Post. She was dressed in black, wearing boots with toes as sharp as her wit and had haphazardly wound a mushroom greige scarf of some soft, wispy material around the neck she famously felt bad about.Įphron loved writing essays but had stopped loving being a journalist and likened it to getting over one’s “first wildly romantic attachment,” because “emotional detachment and cynicism will only get you so far.” She talked about how much she had loved being a reporter in those early years, about trying to be a polymath on someone’s else time and dime, “where you get plunked into some some story or culture or ongoing plot that you knew nothing about the day before and you hit the ground running and people are willing to talk to you. As Ephron lingered over breakfast (eggs, sausage) we spent a leisurely hour: in awe (me) and animated conversation (her). The next morning she squeezed in a couple more interviews at her downtown hotel’s café and I was the last, before the car came to collect her for the airport. It was Remembrance Day and Ephron had blown into Toronto the previous afternoon while touring her last book of essays, I Remember Nothing, to do some press and an in-store interview appearance at the Bay and Bloor Indigo. I read her work often but met her just once, for about an hour. But I never sat across from Nora Ephron at any legendary New York dinner party or played a bit part in a Woody Allen movie alongside her or got cast by her in a movie because I speak French. In the wake of her death late on Wednesday night, there are tributes pouring in from her intimates and those who orbited her in awe. This advertisement has not loaded yet, but your article continues below.

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