A sense of absurdity interferes with my efforts to appear venerable.
Grandiosity lessens as work proceeds.
Growth provides novel experiences for youth; decay the same, alas, for age.
The critic roams through culture, looking for prey.
I seldom remember my father, but I sneeze and rub my nose the way he did. I also love my son with grief and anger, as he did.
In a strange city, I connect through food and fantasy.