The Misanthrope’s Corner

THE other day a woman I ran into at the post office asked me to stop by her apartment and autograph a book. She was neither friend nor acquaintance, just someone I knew to speak to, but by the time her “few minutes” had stretched into the hour of chaos that it became, she had worked her way up to Nemesis.

We walked over to her convenient downtown building that I had often thought of moving to and now can’t. On the day in question, however, I was eager to see whether the rooms were as big as people said.

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Florence King

Florence King was a contributing editor of National Review.

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THE other day a woman I ran into at the post office asked me to stop by her apartment and autograph a book. She was neither friend nor acquaintance, just someone I knew to speak to, but by the time her “few minutes” had stretched into the hour of chaos that it became, she had worked her way up to Nemesis.

We walked over to her convenient downtown building that I had often thought of moving to and now can’t. On the day in question, however, I was eager to see whether the rooms were as big as people said.