I need to find a single reason why I should spend one more iota of time thinking about art. The hothouse of the 19th century mind had too great a hold over my undergraduate years when Howard Mumford Jones and Helen B. White tried to create aesthetes of us all. It was a different era, one that has becoming increasingly irrelevant with the onslaught of movies and the media.

Read several copies of The Week for the first time; so superficial: whoever said Harold Evans was a great mind. I always feel sad for these deracine Englishmen. Lower Manhattan is full of them lurking around Soho House, or munching tartines at Pastis.