“This is Capricorn Hill,” I said one day. Max looked for a while at the stony, cactus-armed rise, the cleared track where wheels could turn. “Yes.”

....In Arizona there was nothing about our made-it-myself two-room house that visibly merited a name. Capricorn Hill. Alone it stood, if not crooked at any rate somewhat rakish, stuck on a landscape of such stunning red and gold grandeur that its life could be only a matter of brevity, a beetle of brown boards and tarpaper roof waiting for metamorphosis. Up on its hill, bifurcating the winds and rather friendly with the stars that swayed over our outdoor table like chandeliers.

     –from Between Lives: An Artist and Her World. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2001, p. 154.