THE HUNDRED-AND-FIRST PAGE

If one is no longer controlled by the observances, rituals, and ceremonies invented by man, nature takes over and gives us her own. The Yankees’ political and religious and--most shrewdly--business holidays like the Fourth of July and Christmas and Halloween--lose their significance and usefulness. Even the marking of a new year at the beginning of January as invented by western man loses its meaning. We pay obeisance to the passage of time as given us by nature. The sun and the moon are our altars, and the Old Farmer’s Almanac our holy writ.

In the 365 given us, there is the shortest day and there is the longest day. Our lives are marked between them.

This day is the longest.

For us, the books and me, this is our Yom Kippur, our day of atonement for deeds done poorly in the past and it is our New Year’s for the resolutions for the future. We must resume our mailings to the office. Poisoning water coolers and polluting electronic mail is petty stuff. We must step up our mailings to the editor until something happens to him. Someone as lazy as he is bound to be sent over an edge if the campaign is fought fiercely enough. Make lists. Create agendas.

Where there’s a way, there’s a will.