I haven’t mentioned Don Quixote in a while, though I’ve been continuing to read it slowly. I’m about two hundred pages in. Last night, however, after we’d got back to the city and were in our apartment, relaxing, I read a short story by Ann Beattie, instead of the Cervantes novel. I’d seen her book lying there on the coffee table as I’d walked by it, and had picked the book up and had paged through it until I’d come across one of the stories that I hadn’t yet read, and began reading it, for a change of routine. Though also because I like her, and have never been bored by or disappointed in her work, the style of which I admired and tried to imitate when I was younger, and was just beginning to write. The title of the book was What Was Mine.