THINGS are casual in the vacation home of Art Buchwald. One leg — the one that is attached to Mr. Buchwald — is propped up on a lounge chair on the back porch. The other, complete with white sock and sneaker, stands, quite independently, in front of a canvas director’s chair in the den.
Mr. Buchwald has always been, with the exception of his periods of black depression, a man who needed to be the life of the party, and in a way only a humorist could truly appreciate, he has gotten his wish: after checking into a Washington hospice in February to die — his leg had been amputated, his kidneys were failing and he had declined dialysis — he lived. The longer he lived, the more attention he got and the happier he became. He resumed his syndicated column. He made a book deal. The hospice became his salon. In early July he checked out and returned to his summer home of 30 years on Martha’s Vineyard, which he calls “its own sort of heaven.”
com um abraço para os amigos Alberto Gonçalves, Carlos Carapinha e João Pereira Coutinho.
