During the Cuban missile crisis, the writer Christopher Isherwood was surprised to find himself going to the gym. “If we are to be fried alive,” he wrote in his diary, “it seems funny to be working out.”
During the Covid-19 crisis, I’m surprised to find myself reviewing “Apropos of Nothing,” the memoir from the 84-year-old Woody Allen. It’s hardly the book I’d want to go out on.
Volunteering to review it, in our moral climate, is akin to volunteering for the 2021 Olympic javelin-catching team. I told my wife and daughter my plan, and they stared at me as if I’d announced my intention to find the nearest functioning salad bar and lick the sneeze guard.
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