When you walk into the center of Edith Grossman’s foyer, you’re not sure which of the six white-walled rooms of this classic high-ceilinged Upper West Side ground-floor apartment, with their ubiquitous wooden bookshelves, tall and short, to rake your eyes over first. As we stood in place for a while chatting by the entrance, I took in the familiar Picasso and Goya prints on the walls, and Grossman held her chin trying to remember where we first met. It soon became evident that she didn’t have a plan for how best to show me the inner shelf life of the apartment she’s inhabited for twenty-nine