But it seems an inappropriate way to treat the death of a woman who has brought so many millions to tears, from Tony Blair to John Travolta, from children in Bosnia to my sisters in England. She was indeed the People's Princess, and everyone wants to mourn her. That's why hundreds of books have been filled with people's condolences and memories — these books are available around the clock for this week in England, and people are queuing 8 or 9 hours to pay their respects and record for posterity why the Queen of Hearts is irreplaceable. That's why I can't access the Royal Web site to leave my own message, 4,000 miles from home. That's why Tony Blair said he felt "like everyone else in Britain today... utterly devastated." He understood that he was only one in millions to be stunned in his sadness.

I've read so much about this that my head is swimming, but a few pieces stand out. Kate Moses, in Salon, writes about the princess who lived "every girl's dream [and] every woman's nightmare." Just as she began to live a very '90s fairy tale (maybe the second man is Prince Charming?) she died an ugly and ordinary death. The National Enquirer (for what it's worth) promised not to publish any photographs of the bodies in the crushed Mercedes, and challenged all publications to do the same. The British tabloids, too, were uncharacteristically subdued and respectful in their coverage, and The Sunday Times requested peace and privacy for the boys until they are older.

The grief is not, of course, universal. Some people find it slightly crass; others just don't get it. ("It's sort of like if Kathie Lee Gifford died, right?" someone asked yesterday.) And soon the grief will give way to the debate over who we should blame. And that debate, in turn, will give way to a thousand books and posters and made-for-TV movies.

But for now, watch a country grieving on its knees; remember this time because it will not happen again.