I went to this exhibit at the New York library today that had all these old manuscripts and artifacts and it was the best. So this, for example, is Charles Dickens’s letter opener. The handle is made of the paw of his beloved dead cat. “Wow!” I thought. “That’s kind of weird, Charles Dickens!” And there was also all this other stuff, like the stuffed animals that A.A. Milne based Winnie the Pooh off of (“Wow!” I thought. “They are real stuffed animals that were his and here they are!”) and e.e. cummings’s typewriter (“Wow!” I thought. “e.e. cummings typed real words on this typewriter!”) and a draft of something Borges wrote (“Wow!” I thought. “He has such neat handwriting!”) and Kerouac’s glasses and his notebook and his lighter and a Gutenberg Bible and Mein Kampf and wow.

“Wow” is a thing that I have been thinking a lot lately for probably very little reason. Yesterday there were all these Christmas trees on the street, because I guess it was Christmas tree pickup day, and I thought, “Wow! Look at all these Christmas trees!” I wow for crowds of people and overheard conversations and looking out windows and waiters leaning against buildings smoking. I accidentally whispered it to myself once or twice in the exhibit. And then I felt like a tool.