The Editor’s Letter
This evening I went for a bike ride through the empty streets. I don’t like leaving the house anymore, if the truth be known. Leaving the inside brings the outside realness in. And I refute this city I see, with its shuttered windows and its bone-bare sidewalks and its masked figures. I wheeled along the roads I know so well in a kind of aimless amble, until I spotted a favorite fruit-and-vegetable shop. It was full of artichokes and fat squash, bundles of mint leaves and shiny grapes. What most caught my eye was a wooden tray of strawberries. I bought them and happily stuffed them in the basket of my bike, so that as I cycled home, the whiff of them—morning rivers, earth sap, fallen leaves—wafted up to my…