Let's paraphrase Tolstoy and say, Every happy memoir is alike, but every unhappy memoir is unhappy in its own way. And then let's point out that Count Leo was wrong. Happiness has a million gradations of its own--some of them frankly impossible to distinguish from low-grade misery--and is no less instrinsically monotonous than music played in a major key. Proof? This lovely, touching memoir by Mary Jarrell. Widow of the great poet-critic Randall Jarrell, the author never sends down her pathographic bucket in search of darkness, drugs, dementia, or erotic folly. Instead we get the details of a gloriously happy existence: the foods they ate, the music they listened to, they cities they loved, even the sporty haberdashery that Jarrell was addicted to. There's a sweetness here that never cloys, never curdles. And Ms. Jarrell turns out to be an elegant and attentive reader of her husband's poetry, forcing even a curmudgeon like me to take a second look at several poems. Still, this is a book about life, not art--and a memorable testimonal on behalf of boon companionship.