If you love Woody Allen, you’ll love the book; if you don’t love Woody Allen, then I advise you to stop reading here, don’t buy this book, and, for that matter, please do not do as I did last night, which is watch Manhattan again, a movie that, in this troubled and lonely time, made me actually stop worrying and love the quarantine. After all these years, I finally got it. As Isaac almost misses Tracy, these kvetching intellectuals miss the whole point. Manhattan is the metaphor for the thing they/we waste our lives not seeing.
Allen grew up in Brooklyn, raised by a rascally Runyonesque father and what sounds like a hideous mother, though he defends her at every turn. Psychoanalysts, start your engines.
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