I remember the day Audrey Hepburn died. I was eight years old, and I had never seen my grandmother so distraught. She bunched a tissue against her eyes and her voice broke, as though the face of Audrey was not an image on celluloid, but
I remember the day Audrey Hepburn died. I was eight years old, and I had never seen my grandmother so distraught. She bunched a tissue against her eyes and her voice broke, as though the face of Audrey was not an image on celluloid, but
Who among us can recall life before online social networking? Those hazy events which predate the Facebook status update and Twitter feed somehow seem less authentic in light of the continuous stream of information to which we now have unlimited access. By now, our favorite