In clearing the top of my desk this late evening (pay no attention to the remote controls), I found a stack of pages from the diary I wrote while in prison.  As is likely to happen while I’m straightening up, I started reading.  I found the following, from July 4, 2015:

10:35 AM, reading Hemingway, A Moveable Feast.  The first chapter impressed me.  Five pages of intense, lumpy description full of lovely touches where every word seems so well fitted into the whole, like each a piece in a mosaic, that I could rarely find one that I would change.  A quote (Scribner, New York, 1964-2001):

“All of the sadness of the city came suddenly with the first cold rains of winter, and there were no more tops to the high white houses as you walked but only the wet blackness of the street and the closed doors of…