I work out every week with a young man named Jason. He is passionately agnostic, the sort of person who calls up the guy on the religious billboards outside of New Haven . . .
Today I am thinking about the mind’s relationship to memory, and how my daughter is old enough now that there are things she does not remember about her life.
It’s been a busy, if ordinary, week. Husband: work. Daughter: camp. Neighbors: fence. Cat: vet. Hot water heater: dead. I’ve withdrawn from the news lately.
Zermatt lies at the end of a narrow valley, near the base of the Matterhorn, and life in the village unfolds in the mountain’s majestic presence. Throughout a day, if it is not completely obscured by clouds . . .
He was a good brother, not that he ever gave her any advice or protected her in a fight or introduced her to one of his friends or even talked to her in front of his friends or took her to a ball game . . .
At around nine A.M. on Saturday, September 18, 1841, a thirty-four-year-old carter named Richard Barstow was driving his wagon down lower Manhattan. It was a raw, drizzly morning.
