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I got a letter from George. His last paragraph: “Never say that I told you this, but I’m not happy in marriage. There seems no way to talk about it. I feel sort of out of it now.” Poor George – and his poor wife. Maybe they rushed into things too fast.
At 14th Street, a man tried to sell me “tooies” (Tuinals), and at the West 4th station, a Jamaican man came up to me and said, “Read this book: it’s beautiful,” handing me Steps to Jesus. I got on a lively D train with some young people on it, and it was nice until an old man who smelled of urine sat down next to me.