Because I have a new and super demanding one of these…
and a new, hyper-lovable one of these on the way…
the broad path I’ve hitherto travelled is rapidly, rapidly narrowing.
But it’s all for the good. I may not have time to turn pages and scribble down thoughts and comment on your blogs and learn about you and your reading and your writing. But please know that this hurts me a lot more than it hurts you. And this is the only time that this dumb-ass expression is true.
I ask one favor of you — actually it’s one favor with many moving parts — that when you see a middle-aged man sitting on a bench or at a table in a coffee shop with a sallow, bewhiskered face, whose eyes are flickering shut from exhaustion, or when you hear the unmistakable squall of a newborn baby or see a great book idling tragically on someone’s lap, think kindly of Mr. Interpolations, and know that he’s happy and well, but goddamn it to hell, he’d give anything to be reading Little Dorrit right now. Yes he would.
Take good care.