You know: in a foolish, undiscriminating way, I've been happy these last few months. I don't know why. I just am. I love my friends; I love my pupils; I love what I read; I -- dammit -- love my thoughts. I love the taste of oranges.
Thornton Wilder in a letter to Gertrude Stein, Aug 14, 1936

Sunday, April 18, 2010


(Please refer to previous disturbing posts of March 25 and Feb 9.)

I am standing in the music book section of Half Price Books, looking for a copy of But Beautiful by Geoff Dyer.

A teenager holds out a book opened to a picture of John Lennon and says, "Is this one George? Oh, sorry, I thought you were my dad."

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