"He is a renowned Swedish filmmaker and has a plan for everything. She is his daughter, the youngest of nine children. Every summer, since she was a little girl, she visits him at his beloved stony house surrounded by woods, poppies, and the Baltic sea. Now that shes grown up and hes in his late eighties, he envisions a book about old age. He worries that hes losing his language, his memory, his mind. Growing old is hard work, he says. They will write...

--Victor? I looked up when I heard when I heard my name but I couldn't see a thing. I was sitting near the open door and the light coming through was a solid sheet between me and whoever had spoken. My eyes were watering a bit - they did that. I often felt that they were melting slowly in my head. --Am I right? It was a man. My own age, judging by the shape, the black block he was making in front of me now, and the slight rattle of middle age in his...