Daily Office:


Matins: After a marvelous evening of theatre — Itamar Moses’s The Four of Us, the very first play that I have ever felt captured by, as in, “it was about me”; it was really just about creative, brainiacky young men generally, if you can generalize about such a demographic, and the prickly, clandestinely competitive arrangements that take the place of friendship in their lives. (If they’re lucky, they outgrow this awkwardness, but I’ve met many who didn’t.) Hey, enough about me! — what do I come home to find but an email responding to an old blog entry from over three years ago:

If anybody out there knows a sixtyish Greek woman née Katerina Koini, tell her to give me a shout. Kathy (as we called her) was a vibrant exchange student at Bronxville High when I was in tenth grade, and I’m still profiting from the things she taught me, such as, for example, Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet.

Sext: Every time the pundits predict that Mrs Clinton is hors de concours, I remember the words of M le Neveu: “These are people” — the Clintons — “who come back from the dead.”


§ Matins. My correspondent was able to send me a scan of an address, written in a notebook, in 1990, “in another hand.” It’s not entirely legibly, but I’m sure that Nicky, the Greek florist at the corner, will be happy to help me out. I gather that my old friend has had the richly diverse life that I expected. I can’t wait to say hello.

Vivat Internet!

§ Sext. Even The Economist seems to think that the contest is over — just look at this week’s cover: “Almost There.” (Accent on seems, though.)

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