Notes from St. John the Divine
Fran Lebowitz was smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk when I arrived at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine. It was four o’clock, a full hour before the memorial service was scheduled to begin, and I’d decided to get there early in hopes of avoiding what I imagined would be throngs of mourners jockeying for seats. Knowing Fran, she probably had the same idea.
On the train to St. John’s I read, for the first time, by . I’d borrowed it from the personal library of a couple for whom I was housesitting that week. They were very excited to learn that I would be attending a memorial for Joan Didion while they were away. Before they left, they encouraged me to avail myself of their book collection; my first night in the house, I plucked from the shelves ’s , ’s , and the Outline trilogy. I knew I couldn’t possibly read them all within the week, but I liked having them at my fingertips. At night I slept
