I have returned from my Brooklyn odyssey to admire an echoing, urethane-scented living room that seems too pretty to belong to me; also to discover that Tom fell on the ice while we were gone and sliced up his face; and now, it seems, to learn that I am sick with a sore throat, just in time to go back to work today.
Things I did in New York: slept till 9 a.m., drank beer in a revolving dining room, went backstage at a Broadway show, ate carrot meringue pie, walked on the High Line, spotted snowdrops in bloom, watched my son's joy.
Yesterday, in between dusting and laundry, etc., I read nearly all of Alice Munro's latest story collection, Too Much Happiness, which I bought in Brooklyn, along with a collection of Jack Gilbert's poetry.
Why does Munro's writing move me so? It never fails, never fails.
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Pardon this small note; I really am not feeling very well. More tomorrow, I hope.