Saturday: fell ill, was lonely. Badgered old friends into meeting for brunch. Then went down to the museum and looked at the pictures that Diane Arbus made of the unhappy people, until I was blind with sadness, futile human beings and our prejudices. The pictures, babies crying, gaudy widows in gaudy rooms, strippers unwinding with a cigarette, unphased. And she was gone of her own hand, once she discovered happiness: the retarded people grinning at the costume party, or bobbling forward in a loose line home.