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She really was an amazing, talented writer and accomplished in many different venues. I enjoyed her occasional appearances on talk shows because she was interesting, frank and humorously self deprecating.

Marie, I've found it's worth it to be logged in to certain sites like the NY Times and Washington Post.

Yes, she was a great writer and a very smart, funny lady. She brought a lot of joy and provoked a lot of thought through her work.

I was sad, too. I really enjoyed her recent books. She just seemed like someone I'd love to have as a neighbor! And maybe Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson on the other side...

Public radio has been replaying old interviews with Nora and I have been enjoying them immensely. As others have said, her sentiments seem like those of a dear close friend and it feels like a personal loss now that she's gone.

I love her movies. RIP.

Probably a violation of some law, but here it is, in honor of Nora and the rest of us who forget:

I Know You

I know you. I know you well. It's true I always have a little trouble with your name, but I do know your name. I just don't know it at this moment. We're at a big party. We've kissed hello. We've had a delightful conversation about how we are the two last people on the face of the earth who don't kiss on both cheeks. Now we're having a conversation about how phony all the people are who do kiss on both cheeks. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. You're so charming. If only I could remember your name. It's inexcusable that I don't. You've been to my house for dinner. I tried to read your last book. I know your girlfriend's name, or I almost know it. It's something like Chanelle. Only it's not. Chantelle? That's not it either. Fortunately she isn't here, so I haven't forgotten both of your names. I'm becoming desperate. It's something like Larry. Is it Larry? No, it's not. Jerry? No, it's not. But it ends in a Y. Your last name: three syllables. Starts with a C. Starts with a G? I'm losing my mind. But a miracle occurs: the host is about to toast the guest of honor. Thank God. I can escape to the bar. I will spend the rest of the night scrolling through the alphabet in an attempt to come up with your name. If I fail, there's always Google. If only I could remember what that last book was about.

Have We Met?

Have we met? I think we've met. But I can't be sure. We were introduced, but I didn't catch your name because it's so noisy at this party. I'm going to assume we know each other, and I'm not going to say, "Nice to meet you." If I say, "Nice to meet you," I know what will happen. You'll say, "We've met." You'll say "We've met" in a sort of aggressive, irritable tone. And you won't even tell me your name so I can recover in some way. So I'm not going to say, "Nice to meet you." I'm going to say, "Nice to see you." I'll have a big smile on my face. I won't look desperate. But what I'll be thinking is, please throw me your name. Please, please, please. Give me a hint. My husband is likely to walk up, and I'll have to introduce you, and I won't be able to, and you'll know that I have no idea who you are even though we probably spent an entire weekend together on a boat in 1984. And even though I have a secret signal with my husband that involves my pinching him very hard on the upper arm, a signal that means, "Throw your name at this person because I have no idea whom I'm talking to," my husband always forgets the secret signal and can't be counted on to respond to my pinching, even when it produces a bruise. I would like to chew my husband out about his forgetfulness on this point, but I'm not exactly in a position to do so since I myself have forgotten (if I ever knew it) the name of the person I'm talking to.

Old Friends

Old friends? We must be. You're delighted to see me. I'm delighted to see you. But who are you? Oh, my God, you're Jane. I can't believe it. Jane. "Jane! How are you? It's been - how long has it been?" I.,d like to suggest that the reason I didn't recognize you right off the bat is that you've done something to your hair, but you've done nothing to your hair, nothing that would excuse my not recognizing you. What you've actually done is gotten older. I don't believe it. You used to be my age, and now you're much, much, much older than I am. You could be my mother. Unless of course I look as old as you and I don't know it. Which is not possible. Or is it? I'm looking around the room and I notice that everyone in it looks like someone - and when I try to figure out exactly who that someone is, it turns out to be a former version of herself, a thinner version or a healthier version or a pre-plastic-surgery version or a taller version. If this is true of everyone, it must be true of me. Mustn't it? But never mind: you are speaking. "Maggie," you say, "it's been so long." "I'm not Maggie," I say. "Oh, my God," you say, "It's you. I didn't recognize you. You've done something to your hair."

Nora Ephron, the author, most recently, of "I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman," is a contributing columnist for The Times.

Thanks graywings!