Flashback a few years–my mother and I went to the Jewish film festival in Houston, TX. There’s a film about Sukkot. What matters is this: I learned that if a woman wants to have a baby in the next year, she is to bite the tip off the etrog (no circumcision jokes, please). Back in 2009, I open the familiarly-shaped box, already suspecting that I was about to find a fragrant citron, and my husband walks in, asking "What’s this?" "Pretty sure mom sent me an etrog," I tell him, ready to chuck the thing out the window or feed it to the dog in order to avoid further explanation. "???" I explain anyway. He begins to laugh. He starts pushing the etrog closer and closer. He asks if it counts if he sneaks it to me, like at this point, I’d fall for the old, "hey honey, I made some lemonade…want some?" Flashback, Simchat Torah 2007–I have gone to services with a lovely Jewish man, the first MOT I’d dated in over a decade. By the time we got the Barchu, we knew Gd was having a good laugh at our expense. We got buzzed on the etrog vodka our unicycle-riding rabbi was handing out and danced with the Torah. But, in 2009, there’s one other hitch. Tonight is the opening night of my husband’s favorite childhood tale, "Where the Wild Things Are." Normally, we’d just go the movies. Ever since he first saw the trailer, and every time since, this cinematic event has become something more sinister. You see, every time, his hand slipped down to my belly. I eventually pointed this out, thinking we’d have a good laugh. Instead, he says," I’m ready when you are."

So, my husband’s clock is tick-tick-booming, my mother has sent me an etrog, and the Wild Things have decided it is time to thrust us all back to childhood. Dear Mr. Jonze, Mr. Eggers, Mr. Sendak, and Mr. Hanks (you’re not getting out of this, Tom, I stayed for the credits–I know you were a producer): I don’t care what my mother has on you. I don’t care that you just wanted to help us reclaim a touch of our exuberant innocence. If I end up pregnant in the next few weeks, I am holding each of you personally responsible. I expect monthly child-support payments equivalent to the amount I paid to see the movie: two IMAX tickets, one large popcorn, one package Whoppers, one large Coke. Oh, and you’re calling my rabbi and explaining why I skipped shul.

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There is no opening line William Safire wouldn’t loathe. He’d hate the impetuous presumption of an absolute statement, "And they say God has no sense of justice." He’d be tempted towards physical violence with the anecdotal "I once met the legendary Mr. Safire." In short, anything I write would probably just rankle his strict sensibilities.

This is one of those situations where, as a writer, I have to balance truth with emotion, yet accept immediately that the tale is biased, unworthy for distribution by the Associated Press. Good writers can do this: tell the story in plain, uncluttered language. They can make their point while they make you believe. They can shatter your notions while building them better, stronger, and with more power.

When it comes to William Safire, much will be written in the coming days of how his contributions, ponderings, and defense of the English language changed writing. It is even possible that many of these musings will be penned with a copy of Safire’s "Rules for Writers" posted in dangerous proximity. These rules are non-negotiable, for as Mr. Safire teaches us, without clarity of language, there can be no clarity of thought.

Let’s bury Caesar as I think he would have preferred, through etymological examination. Mr. Safire passed on the last of the Days of Awe, the time between the Jewish holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, wherein God decided who will live another year, and who will be voted onto a better island. These heavenly decrees are recorded in Sefer Hayim, the Book of Life. The root of Safire’s name traces to the Hebrew word sefer, meaning book. Yes, it can also mean sapphire, from sappir, a brilliant gem of remarkable value. It could trace to separ, or boundary, as in the limits of understanding or the margins of a page. It could even connect to safra, or scribe, a subject and an act Mr. Safire knew intimately and eloquently.

On Erev Yom Kippur, the night before Jewish people all over the world beg for one more chance to do better, God decided that Mr. Safire would be edited out of Sefer Hayim. We could ponder this loss with great sadness, and we will. But, consider this: perhaps in a time when the sanctity of language was becoming even more endangered and when lucid expression was of utmost importance, God needed the assistance of a strong editor. There is no one better suited than William Safire for the task.

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