Mavis Gallant’s diary excerpts, published in The New Yorker, are making me want to a) read Mavis Gallant, and b) keep a diary.
And now it is suddenly cold, like March in New York. This place cries to be written about — the passive, shuffling crowds, crowds everywhere, levelled off, everyone the same. Well-dressed people are the exception, and the gap between them and the rest of us can be measured in miles.
…When I think about life before I came here, it is like someone else’s life, something I am being told. I can’t write to anyone. At the moment, I haven’t the postage, but, even if I had, what to say? I am not pitying myself, because I chose it. Evidently this is the way it has to be. I am committed. It is a question of writing or not writing. There is no other way. If there is, I missed it.
Unless somebody was handing out Xanax with the foam fingers, Lucas Oil Stadium was ringing with the music of profanities last night. More to the point, television viewers were submitted to ad after ad that likened women—negatively—to sofas, cars, and candy. Mr. Winter didn’t have anything to say about that, so I’d like to raise both of my middle fingers to him and anyone who thinks profanity is somehow more harmful to our children than images of violence and misogyny. (My two sons, fourteen and eleven, thought the Fiat ad was corny, so I guess they will be safe without Mr. Winter’s intervention.) I say we get out of The Pretending To Be Moral game altogether and use the Internet for important things like posting pictures of cats looking at croissants and PDFs of sensitive government documents.