9/17 I have never had much contact with professional writers, and I’m surprised how meticulously they list the publications they have written for, like the ribbon rack on a general’s uniform.

As we drive home from Wappingers Falls, over the bridge, the hills across the river look as if billowing smoke, but they’re not in flames – it is fog, evening fog. Also, that reduced daylight. It is not that the sun is setting earlier – which it is – but this entirely different quality of light, the mutedness of these evenings.

It’s not that nobody would write that in English. Nobody would write that at all. It’s me who wouldn’t write it in English.