Joan, whom I wrote about three weeks ago, is still breathing. The noise of it, relayed down a 50p a minute hospital phone line, is like machinery dying.
I am off to see her at any moment, though I have been putting off this particular moment almost all morning.
In the meantime, a thought bubbled up. True atheism is like celibacy. It may be good for the character. But it’s not a common grace.
Good Morning from the USA (06h30 on Friday, 7 november 03).
I live in New Haven, Connecticut — a simple and frequently-traveled commute from Manhattan.
Your dissection of the New York Post is aggressively accurate and appropriately dismaying. But the only people who take the Post seriously nowadays (Thirty years ago it was a decent paper.) are fellow troglodytes. The Post is not part of any serious national discussion. The people who read it daily and believe it absolutely are the political equivalent of John Birchers ranting in ideological enclaves. They muscle their way into public dialogues by way of shouting matches on TV’s talk shows. They are pennywhistles of sound and fury signifying nothing.
I like your work, your tone of voice, and the clarity of your prose. I’m glad you’re out there.