Writer's Diary
7/7/26
Love really is the meaning of life, and the basis of belief in a common humanity is a common, however deeply buried, capacity for it.
Brought record player back home as I’m packing up the theater—I missed having my records at home.
I know what Wittgenstein meant when he talked about “Beethoven’s great heart”.
More than anything I look forward to a few months of not striving, not making anything, not living in New York for the most part.
It’s interesting to figure something out that had previously been a mystery—
Always, one must forgive—I think; even when you don’t have to.