I am so pleased that this won the Pulitzer. Bess Wohl's "Liberation" hit me with a direct emotional impact I hadn't experienced since the "The Normal Heart" revival. It felt immediate and personal, and I saw my mother's life and my sister's life with a vividness that stung.

And today, the rose-breasted grosbeak arrived.

When tons of wicked little thoughts merrily appear....

It's not just the fashion industry that has changed since the original "The Devil Wears Prada." Could anyone twenty years ago have imagined Meryl Streep participating in the kind of exhausting, storm-the-beaches, flood-the-zone press campaign that has attended the sequel?

Every morning, I go to the window and, everywhere I look, the world has gotten greener -- I mean, deep, explosive, all-pervasive green. Hey, we have arrived in the land of Oz!

Taylor Swift breaking down the craft of songwriting -- the origins, process and aftermath -- in the New York Times is my favorite interview in ages. Bonus: It's a guide on how to stay sane while famous. Lucid, funny, self-aware and so artful and illuminating in its use of detail.

It's the knife-like voice of the dead girl, sung by Vilma Jaa, that I can't get out of my head this morning. That and the subliminal chorus that floats that seems to have its roots in your own memory. Simon Stone's Met production of Kaija Saariaho's "Innocence" is a night at the opera like no other.

I had a swell weekend of revitalized (and revitalizing) theater - on Broadway, of all places: "Death of a Salesman," "Becky Shaw" and "Cats: The Jellicle Ball." Each, in its way, testifying to how theater can reframe the world. Like Orban's defeat, a reason to hope this spring.

Something I never thought I'd say: I cried at "Cats." A musical that celebrates rebirth has found its ideal form in "Cats: The Jellicle Ball" on Broadway, which presents ballroom culture as the most joyous, transformative church you could ever belong to.

The expert Broadway reincarnation of "Becky Shaw," Gina Gionfriddo's corrosive comedy about the damage that damaged people do, is pretty close to perfect. It's the tart tonic I hadn't even realized I was thirsty for - the kind that goes down easily but with a sting that both tickles and alarms.

It's the BIRTHday of BETte DAvis, who brought a new kind of nerviness to American screens. I interviewed her in my first job in New York, for W. She really did talk in emphatic, parsed, capital-letter syllables. She told me that in terms of female screen types, she was a BROAD.

The first daffodils to emerge here out of this creeping spring -- next to a stone wall, under a thicket of thorns.

The original Broadway Grizabella hits the ballroom to check out her latest successor and likes what she sees. A lovely generation-bridging piece by Betty Buckley. www.nytimes.com/2026/04/04/o...

The times have made April Fools' gags superfluous and close to impossible. Read the headlines today, and so many of them seem ripe for an "April Fools!'" postscript. If only the last ten years of American history could be erased with a celestial voice booming, "Just kidding!"

The first day this year that had that softness in the air that for me is real, pure spring. You're startled by its gentleness. And suddenly you feel vaguely hopeful.

Farewell to Valerie Perrine, who had a wry erotic forthrightness that made sex a healthy matter of fact. She won an Oscar nomination as Lenny Bruce's wife, but she first won my heart as Marge from "The Last American Hero," when she told Jeff Bridges, "I'm not nice, I'm perfect."

Spent last night soaking up international angst a la Abba, having finally caught "Chess." Was dazzled by Nicholas Christopher, who emerges here as a true Broadway star. His rich baritone and charismatic centeredness transmute propulsive pop into something close to grand opera.

It is the birthday of the possessor of this amused, defiant, penetrating gaze, which was applied in the creation of some of the wittiest, wisest, most coruscating theater ever written. Raise a glass of rubbing alcohol (Martha: "never mix, never worry") to Edward Albee.

It is, impossibly, the 80th birthday of Liza Minnelli, the star of one of the greatest movie musicals ("Cabaret") and the most sizzling musical television revue ever ("Liza with a Z"). Celebrate by putting on a bowler, cocking a hip and throwing your leg over the back of a chair.

A gentle day closes as a prelude to spring.

A seasonal debut.

And lo and behold, as the clocks moved forward, heralding a new season, the snows that had lain on the land for many weeks dissolved into a mist that enfolded all the countryside. And there was celebration amid the mud.

n the New York Times, I ponder Jonathan Groff's evolution into a bona fide matinee idol. A very rare example of a nice guy finishing first. www.nytimes.com/2026/03/05/t...

At the risk of being redundant....

This evening: a spectral possum in the snow.

Good morning. Sigh.

This picture taken at twilight -- just before the next storm -- to commemorate a brief period in which there were visible patches of grass near the roots of trees.

Here it comes again. The view through my windshield this morning.

"Awe allows for a neurobiological reset." Oh, so that' why I get the shivers (or "skin orgasms") watching Malinin and company. Kelly Corrigan winningly explains the physiology of watching the Olympics and why it's good for you in stressful times. www.nytimes.com/2026/02/11/o...

It is the 99th birthday of the wondrous Leontyne Price. Celebrate by listening to her feasting on the pain and passion in Verdi or capturing lost time in Samuel Barber's "Knoxville: Summer of 1915." These are sounds to wrap yourself in against the cold.

Yes, I know they're unloved by many, as carriers of ticks and devourers of shrubs. But my heart still flutters when I wake up to the vision of these elegant beings in my backyard. I feel as if I've somehow slipped into Narnia.

Somewhere in this picture is a driveway. It is 5 degrees Fahrenheit at 2 p.m. in Columbia County, and the (newly fallen) snow is blowing like sand in a desert dust storm. And yet I continue to drink my coffee iced.

And this is what our corner of the world is going to look like for the foreseeable future. Remember melting?

A quiet that roars: Lesley Manville and Robert Icke took me through the creation of a monologue in Icke's "Oedipus" that elicits the most thrilling sound to be heard in a theater: that of an electrified silence. www.nytimes.com/2026/01/31/t...

Look closely at what appear to be giant boot prints here. They are in fact twin beds for deer -- the hollows made by creatures who sleep in the snow. I shudder -- or shiver -- to think upon it. Such delicate looking animals, but obviously very hardy.

And this is the view at twilight. The hills beyond have disappeared into all that white. With twelve more hours of snow to go.

This after a mere four hours of snowfall. With 17 more hours to go. I have put down the pen and taken up the shovel as a full-time occupation.

I bought this paperback when I was 10 years old and have reread it more often than any other novel. I somehow expected it to be the story of my life; it turned out that it kind of was. Anyway, I still use it as a moral compass. I photographed it in a dusty Havishamesque corner.

What it's like to be a prisoner of snow. The view from our living room window.

CBS News = See BS News? Go, Nikki Glaser!

Hyper-intensity in one hyper-intense closeup after another -- from the second row, no less. "Marty Supreme" was nearly sold out this afternoon so I watched it within spitting (sweating) distance of the screen. Exactly the right way to see it. As Sandler would say, "CHALAMET!"

Farewell to Tina Packer, the English-born founder of Shakespeare & Company. Visiting her theater in Lenox, Mass., was long one of my summer highlights. Her work brimmed with energy, wit and a vital command of the language that made Shakespeare make sense to anyone who listened.

I step out of the subway at nightfall, and this is the first thing I see.

This makes my heart sing. www.nytimes.com/2026/01/09/t...

I'm a bit late to the skate party. But I would like to thank Jacob Tierney for creating a show that a lot of us turned out to really need. I never expected to identify with, much less cry for, two hockey bros -- or that romance TV could honor its genre and still feel truthful.

The first moon of 2026. It looks like it's burning, doesn't it? On the ground, all is cold -- really, really cold.

Farewell to Jacqueline de Ribes, the French countess who became a fashion designer and a swan-necked emblem of a rarefied, vanishing elegance. I knew her a bit in Paris in the 80s, and her rigor of style was set off by a schoolgirl's joie de vivre. She giggled (elegantly).

Farewell to 2025, a year of many horrors and an inkling of hope. May that balance shift, please, in 2026.

Farewell, my comrades. The snow is falling fast and thickly.

There comes a moment for me every December, when family ghosts hover insistently, when floodgates open into a rush of tears. Today, that catharsis was triggered by Bess Wohl's wonderful "Liberation," which exults in the power of theater to imagine and connect with the past lives that shaped our own.