I was there.

“IDEAS: The Greek epigraph to ‘Everything and More’ — where’s it from?

WALLACE: It’s made up. ‘It is not what’s inside your head, it’s what your head’s inside.’ It’s a gag. I think the editor thought it was some really esoteric ancient Greek. I got a big kick out of it. It was a big deal to get him to get the diacriticals right.”

Wallace studied Greek.

Went to the library at lunch today to read bananafish, but felt no illumination. It was a long shot.

David Lipsky at NPR: “In stories and essays, Wallace was drawn to a conflict: How can you live well, and how do you do it without damaging other people, embarrassing yourself?” This isn’t the most poetic or fundamental assessment I’ve read, out of scores, in the last 28ish hours; but it resonates. Also resonant: some former student of his reports that his email address was ocapmycap@. Could that possibly be true?

rain or hail
sam done
the best he kin
till they digged his hole

:sam was a man

stout as a bridge
rugged as a bear
slickern a weazel
how be you

(sun or snow)

gone into what
like all them kings
you read about
and on him sings

a whippoorwill;

heart was big
as the world aint square
with room for the devil
and his angels too

yes,sir

what may be better
or what may be worse
and what may be clover
clover clover

(nobody’ll know)

sam was a man
grinned his grin
done his chores
laid him down.

Sleep well

–cummings

rip mr wallace, i cannot say how affected i am, i am utterly dismayed

As Mr. Woods put it: “With the triumph of liberal democracy and laissez-faire capitalism, the conversation came to an end. Everyone wanted to build, which left less room for certain kinds of architecture.”

Travel, airplanes, heat, rushing, beads, plans, Summer. My lemon is growing, my herbs come up, there is a pepper on my pepper. I sweat at home, I bike to work, I sleep under a sheet or less. Life is busy, and good; we eat mango and grill asparagus and exult in our young and strong legs.

Home last night Splendor, many glittering delights, red beef and cold wine, treasure heaped upon treasure, a train of phonetic love whispers leading me from gift to gift to gift:  fine textiles, a wok, a lemon tree, bicycle and accoutrements: happy birthday Casey Gibbs.

I listen to Bach all day at work, and Brahms and Handel, because these musics are intellectually stimulating but also sober. In the mornings, though, I listen to Ravel, because it is not sober, it is lushly drunk on wonder and heightens my sensitivity to the possibility that something amazing will happen during the day.

Wednesday. Morning trains smell mainly like coffee breath. Repeat offenders. ‘Hump Day’ - I usually feel like Thursday is the hardest day of the week. Wednesdays you don’t yet have the fatigue and exasperation of the end of the week, Fridays you get to wear jeans and knock off early and you’re clever and amused all day. Thursdays, no matter how tired and exasperated you get, you know you still have to do it another day. Wednesdays are just Wednesdays, bland days, heart of nothing.

It’s true that wet streets look beautiful in sunlight. My morning walk all of it faces the sun, skyscrapers thinning as I draw on to the horizon.