Here’s the old-school materialist of the last century, sitting in his library before a cozy fire, puffing on a pipe. “Of course all religions are foolishness, but Christianity is the worst. It’s deliberately anti-science, you see; bases its claims on ‘historical’ events that never could have happened. Take the Incarnation: We are asked to believe that a human female was impregnated by a nonhuman spirit and gave birth to a God-man. How ridiculous is that?”

One year on a chilly Sunday evening, Dec. 29, a small group had gathered at the church where I worshipped. The Sunday night crowd was usually less than half the size of Sunday morning’s, and it was Christmas week besides, but our pastor preached as faithfully to scattered sheep as he would have to packed pews. For this sermon he borrowed a theme from his own grandfather, also a pastor, and notes from 1949 (before most of us were even born).

I love the smell of my parents’ house. I visited my parents in Northern Virginia this Thanksgiving, and the moment I walked in, I smelled the pungent, crisp whiff of my mother’s fresh-made kimchi—traditional Korean fermented cabbage, still raw and crunchy in the giant stainless steel bowl she uses to massage the vegetables with chili paste. As I kissed my father’s cheek hello, I smelled his familiar aftershave. Then I ran upstairs to kiss my mother, and smelled her sweet milky lotion.

I’ve always wanted to be an optimist because they are fun to be around. Instead I became a Christian. Which is an optimist but with good reasons. If I were not a Christian, I would be utterly unbearable.

A woman my age whom I have known for years doesn’t drive a car and relies on rides from people everywhere she goes. I learned only recently that her brother died at age 19 in an automobile accident.

Jean-Paul Sartre’s view of hell is not instruments of torture but other people: “L’enfers, c’est les autres.” He wrote a play to that effect in 1944 called No Exit. Three not-so-dearly departed souls find themselves locked in a nondescript waiting room together for all eternity: Joseph Garcin, callous and cowardly former adulterer; Estelle Rigault, shallow high-society gold digger; Inès Serrano, cruel and self-aware manipulative lesbian.

The travel guides hype Washington Square or Bryant Park as the best places to people-watch in New York City, but I’m going to give you a big tip: For my money, the best people-watching happens in the 10-block radius New Yorkers call “bedpan alley.” There Memorial Sloan Kettering’s renowned cancer center abuts four other big-name medical facilities along leafy avenues near the East River.