I’ve been thinking a little about things that are perfect, as a category of things. The library I used to work in, and certain hotels, and Leonard Sciascia’s book To Each His Own. Train stations, and some pop songs: closed systems that achieve every goal that is set for them.

But then I think about Anna Karenina, which is imperfect, and better than most other things.

Which should I go for? Being perfect, or being great?

I gave blood on Friday and then went to see the Bourne Ultimatum. I should have something substantive to say about the movie, but I don’t; watching it by myself on a summer afternoon was like getting a shot of something: instantaneous, icy. I hadn’t thought about that aspect of pleasure, which is that it numbs. On Saturday David said I smelled like chlorine and gin, and I said, Isn’t the point of gin that it doesn’t smell? and he said, Then tonic. He meant it as a compliment. We drove into and out of the city with the windows down and the music up and I said, We are a Pleasuremobile.