I got back to New York late last night from my family reunion in Smalltown, U.S.A., fell into bed, and arose first thing this morning with what appears to be a summer cold. Great. I’m writing for The Wall Street Journal this morning and the Washington Post tomorrow, after which I head for Massachusetts and Washington, D.C., to see a couple of plays, so a summer cold is just what I need at this juncture, don’t you think?

Anyway, I may post a bit later today or some time tomorrow if my head clears, but don’t be surprised if I opt for elective mutism instead. In any case, I’ll be back for real on Sunday, and you’ll hear from me then, assuming this cold, if it is a cold, doesn’t prove fatal. (Hey, it could happen!)

See you sometime.

UPDATE: The cold’s winning. So far, I’ve written two paragraphs of my Journal piece. All I seem to be able to do is read proofs and blow my nose. Would anyone care to bring me some chicken soup? Or perhaps a nice mug of cyanide?

“The charm of getting home, as I see it, is the charm of getting back to what is inextricably my own–to things familiar and long loved, to things that belong to me alone and none other. I have lived in one house in Baltimore for nearly forty-five years. It has changed in that time, as I have–but somehow it still remains the same. No conceivable decorator’s masterpiece could give me the same ease. It is as much a part of me as my two hands. If I had to leave it I’d be as certainly crippled as if I lost a leg.”

H.L. Mencken, Prejudices: Fifth Series

A reader writes:

I want you to know how much I enjoy and appreciate your blog, and now your book. A Terry Teachout Reader was waiting for me when I arrived home from work last night, courtesy of amazon.com. After dinner I read the introduction, the first three essays, and then skipped to the back to read your moving tribute to Nancy Lamott, whom I first heard of reading “About Last Night.” At that point I had to put Come Rain or Come Shine on, and it occurred to me while listening that Nancy’s music was not the only thing I had to thank you for. I saw Ghost World and The Last Days of Disco, movies I’d never heard of, due to you. I watched, and enjoyed, Out of the Past last week on TCM and I taped In a Lonely Place, which I’ll watch this weekend. The last time we were in NYC, my wife and I saw Wonderful Town, based on your review. I’m right now on the web here at work ordering some of Dawn Powell’s books because your essay about her intrigued me. I could go on and on but the point is, you are performing a real service for me and (I’m sure) countless others – pointing us towards great art and great performers that we may not have heard about otherwise, and identifying what makes them great in a clear, lucid writing style. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that my opinions often match up with yours, evidenced by my TCCI of 65%. At any rate, I felt I must let you know how much you’re appreciated. Keep up the good work – lots of people like myself depend on it. And thanks.

Thanks to you, sir. That was just what a sick blogger needed to find in his e-mailbox on a gray afternoon.

The matched set of Fortune Cookies below, once I had posted them, set me to thinking. I yield to no one in my adoration of M.F.K. Fisher–not even to W. H. Auden, who said of her, “I do not know of anyone in the United States today who writes better prose”–but after I typed in and reread the longer of the two quotations, it struck me as haughty and unpleasant. I worried that it might give readers unfamiliar with her work the wrong impression of Fisher.

What I had in mind in putting together the post, of course, was the striking contrast between Fisher’s description of herself at nineteen in the first quotation, and her self-assessment at thirty in the second. Only after posting did I recognize the second extract as uncharacteristically off-putting. In context, it serves as the set-up and counterpoint to a self-critical remembrance of one of those men Fisher angers with her independence, and it works very differently than it does in isolation.

In another meditation on the subject of eating alone, Fisher is more her usual self. This appears in An Alphabet for Gourmets, where “A is for Dining Alone.”

And the kind people–they are the ones who have made me feel the loneliest. Wherever I have lived, they have indeed been kind–up to a certain point. They have poured cocktails for me, and praised me generously for things I have written to their liking, and showed me their children. And I have seen the discreetly drawn curtains to their family dining rooms, so different from the uncluttered, spinsterish emptiness of my own one room. Behind the far door to the kitchen I have sensed, with the mystic materialism of a hungry woman, the presence of honest-to-God fried chops, peas and carrots, a jello salad, and lemon meringue pie–none of which I like and all of which I admire in theory and would give my eyeteeth to be offered. But the kind people always murmur, “We’d love to have you stay to supper sometime. We wouldn’t dare, of course, the simple way we eat and all.”

As I leave, by myself, two nice plump kind neighbors come in. They say howdo, and then good-by with obvious relief, after a polite, respectful mention of culinary literature as represented, no matter how doubtfully, by me. They sniff the fine creeping straightforward smells in the hall and living room, with silent thanks that they are not condemned to my daily fare of quails financi

“I was horribly self-conscious; I wanted everybody to look at me and think me the most fascinating creature in the world, and yet I died a small hideous death if I saw even one person throw a casual glance at me.”

M.F.K. Fisher, “The Measure of My Powers” (1927)

* * *

“More often than not people who see me on trains and in ships, or in restaurants, feel a kind of resentment of me since I taught myself to enjoy being alone. Women are puzzled, which they hate to be, and jealous of the way I am served, with such agreeable courtesy, and of what I am eating and drinking, which is almost never the sort of thing they order for themselves. And men are puzzled too, in a more personal way. I anger them as males.

“I am sorry. I do not like to do that, or puzzle the women either. But if I must be alone, I refuse to be alone as if it were something weak and distasteful, like convalescence. Men see me eating in public, and I look as if I ‘knew my way around’; and yet I make it plain that I know my way around without them, and that upsets them.

“I know what I want, and I usually get it because I am adaptable to locales. I order meals that are more typically masculine than feminine, if feminine means whipped-cream-and-cherries. I like good wines, or good drinkin’-likka, and beers and ales. I like waiters; I think the woman who said that waiters are much nicer than people was right, and quite often waitresses are too. So they are always nice to me, which is a sure way to annoy other diners whose soup, quite often, they would like to spit in.

“And all these reasons, and probably a thousand others, like the way I wear my hair and what shade my lipstick is, make people look strangely at me, resentfully, with a kind of hurt bafflement, when I dine alone.”

M.F.K. Fisher, “The Lemming to the Sea” (1938)

(Both essays appear in The Gastronomical Me.)

Here’s a more revealing version of yesterday’s story:

Boulevard Diner, ele_en-forty.

I down a hot cup of java.

It’s too quiet.

As a gun barrel whacks my noggin

I realize Dixie set me _p.

And here’s another story belonging to the same rarefied genre:

“Jefe–a burro I view like a pet–

vs. a burrow I dig.

I can tell my ass from a hole in the ground!”

Don Qu_xote eyed Sanc_o Panza: “I get it.”

Ninety-eight letters–the same ninety-eight letters–and two blanks. That’s right, they’re Scrabblegrams: they use all the letters and only the letters in Scrabble to tell a coherent if brief tale. Don Quixote was composed by Eric Chaikin, director of Word Wars, who must have felt smiled upon when it struck him that the names of the novel’s two main characters took care of the Q, the X, and the Z in one fell swoop. Boulevard Diner was written by Eric’s brother Andrew Chaikin, who maintains a website about all his many endeavors here.

Perhaps it’s not quite A Void, but it delights and impresses the hell out of me.

– James Lileks goes shopping for a new duvet:

Several styles are available for purchase: Laura Ashley having a screaming acid fit, Clown Pelt, creepy-crawly paisley, and one sage-hued item that I can only describe as “ribbed for her pleasure.”

Clown Pelt. Heh.

– In Slate, Timothy Noah points out that the Kerry campaign’s close-reading skills are in need of a tune-up.

Last month, Chatterbox urged John Kerry to drop the campaign slogan, “Let America be America again.” Instead, Kerry has wrapped his arms more tightly around the slogan’s regrettable source. As Chatterbox noted in the earlier column, “Let America be America again” comes from a poem published in 1938 by the Harlem renaissance poet Langston Hughes. But Hughes intended the line ironically. A black man living in the pre-civil rights era would have had to be insane to look back to a golden age of freedom and equality in America, and Hughes was not insane. Hughes was, rather, an enthusiastic cheerleader for the Soviet Union at the time he wrote “Let America Be America Again,” which explains the poem’s agitprop tone.

– In the Chicago Tribune book section, Scott McLemee looks askance at Dale Peck’s Hatchet Jobs and puts the Great Snark Debate in depressing perspective:

What is worrisome about contemporary book commentary is not that someone with Peck’s habitual mean-spiritedness has carved out a name for himself–though it does suggest that criticism is now as much a part of the entertainment industry as gangster rap and extreme makeovers. People laugh at his jokes, or at the skinhead Paul Bunyan impersonation on the cover of his book, or both. Yet they overlook his efforts to be thoughtful, which are, if anything, just as funny. Adolescents often feel the need to philosophize, after a fashion. And I’m afraid that is precisely the impression left whenever Peck turns from strident denunciation of a particular novelist to sweeping generalizations about the culture. Still, the latter are a necessary element of criticism–part of the job of sorting and judging literature and of making sense of life itself. Peck may do it badly, but what makes the situation a crisis is that scarcely anyone cares.

This ultra-short story seems simple enough, but it was composed under a rather exacting restriction. Can you figure out what it is?

Boulevard Diner, eleven-forty.

I down a hot cup of java.

It’s too quiet.

As a gun barrel whacks my noggin,

I realize Dixie set me up.

I’ll post another such story tonight.

(Yes, I concede that you can find the answer through strategic Googling. But wouldn’t it be more fun not to?)