![]() John’s job is to sit in a glassed-off cell and watch people to make sure they don’t steal any rare books. I sit in Washington Square Park and write in my notebook, unable to last for long taking notes in one of the library’s reading rooms. All summer accompanying John to the Newberry Library, limping in my new sandals, bathing my bleeding sweaty feet in the downstairs sink like I am some homeless woman, changing the bandages that melt off in the heat. I am trying to learn how to be a serious writer and write important books, yet I cannot deal with all of the silence. ![]() Most days I cannot be alone in my little red office, my hermitage on Hermitage Avenue in the Ukrainian Village neighborhood, trapped like a Trappist, as Djuna Barnes quipped of her monkish isolation at Patchin Place in the Village, in the years after Paris, after Thelma Wood and Nightwood. ![]() ![]() We have just moved back to Chicago from a year spent in London. ![]()
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