Here we are again on the Rappahannock, piecing boats together with tape and scissors, waiting for the onslaught of happy, jumpy, NOISY, uncontrollable scout persons to board and go off sailing, which happens in a week. I've been here four days and with 90 degree heat and unceasing hard labor my mind has withdrawn to safety deep within, and is refusing all communication.
Too bad, because either some Times writers have gotten especially brilliant this week, or I am no longer chewing language to digestible bits. I'm thinking now of David Brooks, who always manages to say something entirely new, in a way entirely comprehensible. I hate him. The more so as he's also very funny and, though opposite me politically, the guy I'd most like to hang out with among the whole Times tribe.
Joyce Wadler finds a kind of poignant hilarity in killing garden pests, and a new book is out on Evelyn Nesbit, who's appeared in this space before, most importantly as the former resident of a house we used to live near, and also as something of a fixation of certain architect friends.