Somewhat to my surprise, I decided to keep a journal of my hundredth year. I’ve started journals before, at various points in my life, but the urge never lasted more than a few months. This time, I have a motive. Since 1958, I have been writing for The New Yorker, which, like me, was born in 1925. It recently became clear that interviewing dozens of people, gathering mountains of material, and keeping it all in my head has become increasingly difficult, what with my porous memory and failing eyesight. So why not just accept the inevitable and enjoy a year or two of leisure? I’ve tried that, and no thanks. Boredom in excelsis. Hence the journal. Not every day, but when an event, experience, person, or thought catches my attention enough to overcome my laziness.journey-inline-newsletterinline-newsletterFebruary 15th