December 10. I wrote a brief review of The Gutenberg Parenthesis, just to get it over with, but I feel I’ve neither done that book justice, nor have I come to terms with my own irritation with it. I am furious because the information that is buried in books is not allowed to be unleashed into the world – it is gate-kept by people who believe the only way to discover meaningful information is in the shelves of a well-run paper bookstore. And second, I am furious because the feudal structure of who gets to be an author and who doesn’t is still intact, being upheld by publishers, authors, and readers alike. And I am furious because both the first and the second statement are not really true. Me being this furious is what deserves further investigation.

A woman works her way through the door between the subway cars, the door you’re not supposed to use. She is gaunt, dirty, starts her litany asking for money, which in the noise, even after the door has closed behind her, only those very close to her can even hear. I usually have no cash on me, but tonight I do, a tattered ten dollar bill in the zipper pocket in the strap of my backpack. Ten dollars is enough to make her face shine just a little, she had the briefest spell of good luck in this subway car.

As I get off the subway at 96th street, there is another woman, or more like a haunted spirit in the guise of a woman, jumping frantically through the station. She wears only a wet sweater above bare legs and feet. Her murmurs and shouts are unintelligible, except some utterances that sound like “help me”. I ignore her and walk home through the rain.