Ain't Misbehavin'

dropped into a Paris Review reading at shakespeare & company last night - because Mavis Gallant was going to be there. bookstore jammed with people (the sensible black cat as usual sitting on the flat video security screen - it's a warm place in a cold Paris november - but Sylvia's convinced he must be getting some kind of cut from book thieves). after a few other readers, Mavis steps up to the plate, all five feet of her, you can barely see her hair over the metal music stand, but she starts to read, and all of a sudden you're there, in her diary of Paris, the way it used to be and is, fresh and alive and nothing like what i had to read in high school. george whitman, looking suave in a green corduroy jacket, even comes downstairs to hear her. when she's done reading, i rush out and along the quay singing Ain't Misbehavin' to myself, though i keep missing out on the words. someone else is running in the opposite direction on the far side of the Seine. it's a good night for rushing home.