And the Homes of the Braverman

Will Kate Braverman ever find happiness in a rustic East Coast small-college township (“From Apples to Oranges to Grande Skim-Milk, Extra-Foamy Lattes,” April 21)?

Will her relocation blues ever be eased altogether by full-throated birds, rustling autumn leaves? She’s having a hard time putting Los Angeles behind her.

Now, she seems to think that a simple divorce from Southern California isn’t enough. No, L.A. must be put out of its misery altogether--written off, scrapped as the “Enormous Rotting Orange.” Envisioning the city’s demise is a sport that L.A.’s serious writers have indulged in for about three-quarters of a century, or at least since Nathanael West decided to burn the whole place down in “Day of the Locust.”

And such dramatic --and odd images: I’m finally getting those rancid, razor-laced oranges off my breath.” I’m not suggesting that Braverman’s poetic license be revoked, but she is writing a bit recklessly.

Her caffe latte deprivation and relocation anxiety do not, however, signal the end of L.A. for me, and I doubt that they do for most others here. But I will certainly tune in to future episodes in her psychodrama.

John de Jong

Long Beach