Because there are, whether we admit it in those lean years when we still imagine tomorrow to be an inexhaustible country or only afterward when tomorrow has dwindled into the immured province of recollection, certain quixotic evenings that refuse the common obedience owed to time itself, refusing to sink into that anonymous reservoir where so many days, equally bright while they were being lived and equally forgotten once they have surrendered their brief tenancy of the earth

“A growing number of digitally savvy South Koreans,” I read in a recent Associated Press news story, “are experimenting with AI’s ability to produce video recreations of the dead: a number of startups offering videos featuring AI-produced recreations of loved ones, while TV shows have featured AI versions of dead pop stars and actors.” The story said all these companies need to create remarkable likenesses are a few photos and some short voice samples of the deceased. For the

David Sherman Penny turned 80. She’s having a party. From a distance it could seem that her whole life was a party, but, of course, no one’s is. Penny Rose and her homes have been making people happy here for more than 50 years. It started way back in 1970-something when she drove into Morin Heights with friends in tow and rented a quaint home in the centre of town. Wasn’t much of a town back then. Not a traffic light to ignore. A couple of stop signs, a small grocer/snack ba