My flight home from New York was delayed (setting my mind on a skitterish path of worry and fret) the upside being that I was able to read the entire issue of the New Yorker cover to cover. Gluttonous feast for someone who is usually confined to grabbing an article here or snacking in the carpool line. There, on pages that seem like onion skin compared to the shelter magazines, was Agatha Christie. Yet when I first turned the page I thought for a moment that I was looking in an enchanted mirror. Needlepoint shoes, rings stacked knuckle-to-knuckle, watch on a thick black strap and, yes, beads. The swollen ankles will likely be mine as well as they surely resembled this during each pregnancy. The only unlikelihood being the hair; I fear I will always be putting off the gray for "next year."
Also, this. Jail cell? Secret al Qaeda operative headquarters? Nope. This is where Jonathan Franzen writes. And writes well. He's removed all distraction from the room (I'll say) and all hope of connection to the internet from his computer. I have ordered my copy of Freedom. And will wait, somewhat impatiently, for its release next week. You can read the Time profile here.
Image, top, the New Yorker, August 16th & 23rd, 2010; photography by Lord Snowdon. Image, last, Time, August 23, 2010; photography by Dan Winters.