The place downstairs was called Starwich and it had big leather couches and Wi-Fi, which attracted silent people with laptops. The fact that this is a desolate part of Midtown West didn’t stop it from selling Kobe beef sandwiches. I knew the moment I moved in and ordered a lunch for two that cost $39 that Starwich would be the first place to close when the recession hit, and it was. One day last October a sign outside said “For Sale,” and inside, everything was indeed for sale, from the big leather couches to the sinks, mugs, muffin racks and steel counters. Two guys I know bought a sink as a planter. "One down," I thought, "millions to come."

CVS used to stay open until 11. Now it closes at nine PM.

The food at Food Emporium was never the kind of high-quality, mouthwatering, Alice Waters worshipping stuff you see at Wholefoods, but it was good enough, and there was a lot of it. I was pleased that they carried the Green and Blacks 85% chocolate bars from England. Last fall I bought as many as I could, in the full expectation that as things got worse, Food Emporium would stop buying chocolate from England. It’s almost all gone now. In the evenings there are fewer people working there. “We get seven bucks an hour,” said one of the staff. “And now they’ve cut our hours.” There is also less food. On Sunday night, I bought the absolute last head of fennel, the last head of romaine lettuce. Management trimming its margins, of course. The sight of the depleted shelves reminded me of a photograph I saw in Granta of a supermarket in Sarajevo during the war in Bosnia, where there was nothing at all on the shelves. Our American idea of food and supermarkets has always been an inflated vision of plenty that was as wasteful as it was appealing. We’re going to have to learn to do without the spectacle of food.

In November, I ate with friends at a chic Vietnamese restaurant in Tribeca. We were the only people there.

On  December 20, I bought more clothes at Bergdorf Goodman than I had bought in years, 14 dresses and shirts and skirts and a coat — for what one jacket would have cost me in early September. But here’s the problem: I feel ostentatious in the new clothes.

My local dry cleaner has less business. The customers bring in fewer clothes, and less often. Many business shirts no longer needed.

On March 2, a friend had a birthday party at a huge Japanese "brasserie" called EN, on Hudson street, where a downtown crowd used to fill every seat. The party was in a private room upstairs; I arrived at 8:35, and walked through an entirely empty restaurant.

On the other hand, when I go to people’s houses, we all stay up talking until three, or four, or even five. The artists who had the huge studios and the huge staff to carry out the huge commissions are getting rid of the studios and cutting down on the staff, because there are no huge commissions. The artists who always worked alone, who walked, biked or took the subway and subsisted, throughout the gilded age, on whole-wheat pasta and alcohol, are still working alone, and maybe as drunk as skunks a little more often. People are noticing each other a little more. At theater, they laugh harder.

The toys are being taken away, but life, I think, is coming back.