Interesting show last night. A cabaret-style affair with lots of old standards. Had forgotten how beautiful the Bergman’s “What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life?” is—regardless who’s singing it.
Restless night’s sleep. Up early to get a little writing done, then away to the office. Killed the afternoon, came home to a quiet house and a new New Yorker. Read a story today, an homage to Joyce’s “The Dead,” I found desperately pathetic. I mean, if you’re going to go after Joyce, don’t do it in a way that invites comparisons. You’ll never win. Ever.
Cold this evening. Temps are supposed to come back up, but I fear not enough to resurrect Indian Summer.