The 2nd anniversary of Sept. 11th was 2 days ago. It’s taken me until now to write about it, and I won’t write much. As some of you know, the book I’ve been working on for the past 2 years is set in the aftermath. It says just about everything I have to say about that time, at least everything I can articulate. I wrote it for the same reason I went on Thursday to Ground Zero to hear the names of the dead read aloud. It’s an instinct I really don’t understand, the idea of bearing witness. I don’t know why it seems important. But last year, and this year too, I felt like all I could do for any of those people was listen to their names, so I did. Really, what the hell do they care? They’re dead. But I did it anyway. In between, I wrote the book, so people who weren’t here in those weeks after would know how it was. Why? I have no idea. Will it make anyone a better person, or the world a better place? My book? I doubt it. But I wrote it anyway.