I'm sorry I've left you all. I'm still crashing a piece for the magazine, hoping to be out of print-hell by Monday. There's a lot on my mind. I miss Paris more than anything. I'm waking up at two in the morning. I have not reset my watch, and don't ever plan to. I've been playing a lot of Babyface. There's air conditioning everywhere--whether it's actually hot or not. I had to come out the subway yesterday just to feel the city. This is all very ridiculous. I feel like Jack Nicholson in "As Good As It Gets"--Over a dog. Over an ugly dog.
Started teaching yesterday. Carrying two classes this semester instead of one. Back to back. I was on fire for three hours. And then I was exhausted. But I told my kids I missed them all summer. And I didn't even know them yet. It's true.
But I've gotta go. Need to make it happen. Gotta get it in. Or whatever the old folks are saying these days. How about this: Ma maison est votre maison. Soyez gentil. Vous possedez ça.
Corrigez-moi, s'il vous plaît.
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is a national correspondent for The Atlantic
, where he writes about culture, politics, and social issues. He is the author of The Beautiful Struggle
, Between the World and Me,
and We Were Eight Years in Power