From the Time piece, by Richard Corliss, about Steve Martin’s new memoir, Born Standing Up: A Comic’s Life (of which I really must get a copy):

In recalling the ’60s and ’70s, Martin writes revealingly of his sex life (busy) and his drug life (not so much). But the most poignant passages touch on his estrangement from his father and their reconciliation at the elder man’s deathbed. “When I published that part in the New Yorker,” Martin says, “I got a great letter from a woman. She said, ‘I read your article about your father, and I gave it to my husband, and he read it and didn’t say anything. And then he said to me, What’s our son’s phone number?’” For a moment over lunch, Martin clutches his chest—a dramatic display of emotion for this very inward man who may, at heart, be the kid who stayed all day at Disneyland rather than pedal home to spend time with his dad.

Martin reads from his book in an audio feature at newyorker.com, and he also talked with editor Susan Morrison at this year’s New Yorker Festival. He had a lariat, and he knew how to use it.