I was out of it yesterday, not only with the Sunday NYT but also with a wrenched arm and shoulder. Couldn't swim, though I tried but it hurt too much. Never got dressed. I did do some work. Have to justify my existence each day, after all. But no blog. You don't have to know all this, nor do you care. Writers are so arrogant. They think what they do each day matters. In addition to being a marvellous poet and arguably the best metricist of the 20th century, W.H. Auden was a witty, often profound, essayist. In one piece he was considering social workers and he wrote a great line I've never forgotten. "Social workers," Auden said, " say, 'We are put here on earth to help others. What others are here for, we don't know." I think that's true of writers' attitudes, too. I know what I'm here for - which is why I feel it so strongly when I don't do as much as I should do each day. That way of thinking, I fear, makes me very hard to live with, so I guess it's a good thing I don't live with anyone. I have to keep reminding myself that other people need recognition, too. That's why I keep taking soup and goodies to neighbours and try to remember birthdays and give jollies. Jollies was my father's word for little prezzies. A jolly is not really a present, it's just a little something to jolly life along. We all need jollies. Me too. I'm running low on power now. A bientôt.