![]() this week, which has been spooky, as if the days - already surreal - had cycled into obscure concordance with our collective emotions. It’s been raining almost continually in L.A. ![]() Instead I’ve been listening to music and staring into space, thinking about surgical masks and food supply chains. ![]() And my usual remedies for temporary emotional decline (“ My Family and Other Animals” by Gerald Durrell, for instance) seem no good now either. At least based on social media, it seems as if a lot of people are handling isolation by reading long novels, but I spend my regular life reading long novels. I’m with a small assortment of family members, all suddenly in possession of robust opinions about what should be for dinner, since it’s the main event of the day other than brooding and phone calls. Today’s Friday, which marks a week at home so far. Today, Charles Finch, author of the Charles Lenox mystery series, finds he likes Norah Jones, learns a Steely Dan solo, reads Kierkegaard and becomes a “candle guy.” March 20 ![]() The Times asked authors to track what they do in isolation. ![]()
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