Reading The New York Times this morning was very strange. The paper is now a column narrower than it was yesterday (and forever before). The Times says that it’s a purely pragmatic move that will have no effect upon content, but that’s manifestly impossible. The paper certainly isn’t going to reduce its ad space. I’m not really complaining, though. The Times has lost so much of my respect in the past seven years that I consider dropping it at least once a week. “The paper of record” – hah!

There’s an interesting editorial about language: is it a uniquely human thing, or can animals talk, too? All right, what’s interesting is that the Times is editorializing about what seems to me to be a totally religious issue, where “religious” means “believing that human beings are not animals.”

In a new book called “The First Word,” Christine Kenneally catalogs the complex debate over language and includes one particularly revealing experiment in which scientists put two male apes who knew sign language together. One might have expected these guys to start grousing about their keepers, to wonder at beings that are all thumbs and actually seem to enjoy giving away bananas. But, no, they started madly signing at each other, a manual shouting match, and in the end, neither appeared to actually listen to the other.

So, are two creatures actually conversing if they’re both talking and nobody is listening? Where does talking-without-listening put one in the animal brain chain?

Let’s see, talking without listening. Many wives can think of someone who might qualify. Teenagers do, easily. And parents of teenagers. Also, a lot of successful politicians and talk show hosts.

Whoever wrote the editorial left out Woody Allen’s movies. Have you ever noticed how rarely his characters listen to one another?

The narrower broadsheets are really unsettling.

The other day, I finished reading Alexander Waugh’s Fathers and Sons, and came away thinking that the Waughs are almost as interesting a dynasty as the Mitfords – although with the Mitfords the magic was confined to a single brilliant generation of sisters. As it happens, Evelyn was a good friend of Diana’s right at the beginning of his career; he dedicated his masterpiece, Vile Bodies, to her – having read sheets of it to her during her confinement (in the West End, while she was pregnant; not at Holloway). Later, he got to be good friends with Diana’s older sister, Nancy. and their correspondence, which has been published, is great fun to read. So politically incorrect! Worse than Mad Men, even!

My Mitford page is getting to be too lengthy, and undoubtedly the current file will one day be reduced to a menu leading to many others.

¶ Reading Matter>Reading Matter>Shrieks (Pavillon Mitford).

As I was rounding up pages for August, I decided that there were two that deserved to be re-presented every year. On the last day of the month, I’ll point to what is essentially the “About Me” page at Portico, just to be sure that everyone sees how handsome I used to be. And on the fifth, I will point to Fossil Darling’s signature contribution to the enterprise: his recipe for a ghastly stew that he aptly calls “Depresseganza.” The idea is that the mix of chili, corn, rice, and crushed tortilla chips is just the thing when you’re feeling low – the ultimate comfort food. To me, it sounds about as comfortable as the upholstery that lines a coffin.

¶ Culinarion>Extras>Depresseganza

There’s little or no incentive to post an entry today, because a sizable
contingent of readers isn’t going to check in. They’re the people who like to
know what Kathleen’s up to, and today they can do that without my help, because
she’s right there with them, in Raymond, Maine, where her old summer camp sits
on Lake Sebago, and where a couple of fellow counselors have weekend houses.
Kathleen flew up this morning, on an eight-o’clock plane. I made the mistake of
getting up with her. Twilight is far off, but I can hardly keep my eyes open.

How about all those crazy people, sitting out in the sun! Sheer madness.

In the distance is the Manhattan Psychiatric Center. It looks deserted when we drive by on the Triboro Bridge, but apparently it’s still in operation. Ha! It’s address is a very misleading “600 East 125th Street.” What kind of a joke is that? Although within the Borough of Manhattan, the center is not on Manhattan Island, but on Ward Island, across the Harlem River. You can tell that I was visiting in the middle of the day, because the  shadows projected by the wings are so thin. About now, the shadows will make the building look like the enormous sundial that, come to think of it, it is.

The weather is so beautiful that I supplemented a trip to the grocery store
with a walk to Carl Schurz Park. I looked across the East River at the Astoria
Houses, with, just beyond them, the much swankier Pot Cove Tower. I’m pretty
sure that that’s not what the luxury building, visible from our balcony, is
called, but Pot Cove is what it stands over. I took pictures, but my hand wasn’t
steady enough. When are they going to make cameras without push buttons?