On the Hampton Jitney, sitting next to Kung Fu Flash Kid who is sleeping off a 5-year-old birthday party, I am reading the FT Weekend. It happens to be the printed edition, not because I don’t love trees, but because I do love that we still have a newsstand right at the stoop to our apartment. Anyway, the paper tells me we are all as bad off as we may have imagined. It tells me laughter is the best medicine. It tells me this is a strange and beautiful world.

I am reminded how the quality of the writing is not at the peaks it had reached during the Clinton era. I am reminded of the time that even such a lover of nonfiction as nonfiction writer Simon Winchester asked me what, pray, in the Financial Times, I could possibly be laughing about, and I reminded him that the truth is funny. I am reminded today it never ends, neither the ugliness nor the wonder of it all.

That the journalism is less than perfect, I find it peculiarly encouraging on a personal level. That personal journaling can encourage others may be a vain notion, and yet a thoroughly worthwhile pursuit. My only task then is to begin, and then begin again.

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