Last Friday’s newsletter began:

In Texas, it looks like fall before it feels like fall. To scramble a line from Sylvia Plath’s journal, the worst of the summer is gone, with “the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.” Virginia Woolf said it well in a letter: “I feel entirely dehumanized by the sun now and wish for fog, snow, rain, humanity.” None of that is coming until at least Halloween down here, so we must settle for what C.S. Lewis in Surprised By Joy called “the idea of Autumn.”

And...