The Clairvoyant Zoopraxiscope

I rode up on my elevator at work with a woman in a, uh, burkha (sp.). Second time in 6 years.

I wonder if this is the city of the happy, or if no one has time to think, or if perhaps they have too much...

I have bought, for a dollar, a book by Rafael Alberti called The Owl's Mirror, poems in Spanish translated by Mark Strand, for whom the act of translation acts as a productive muzzle. For seven more dollars, I bought Ishiguro's The Unconsoled, which I have read when lended, but never while owned. Ah what a great, great novel. Say what you want about about the complacency of the big-time novelist, etc--this is a quietly demented book...

I marvel at the NY Post's inaccuracy. And a small part of me feels relieved that Edwards has been chosen...

Note to self: more! more!

And better.