Had the good sense to read latest NY Review of Books, the best $60 I ever spent. Updike's essay on an anonymous screenwriter rather graceful, so much better than his art crit. I wonder why the writer's life never interested me, (I can sound as smart as the next man) mainly because I like to move around and the prospect of sitting in front of a blank piece of paper almost every day impossible. The claustrophobia of the studio and the even worse oppression of one's own thoughts.