By this alert reader, who was nevertheless too absorbed in a Richard Ford novel to get the lay of the land, that is, what Remnick was reading as he traveled along, or whether he was alone rather than, say, in a group of women with men. Even still, such a sighting is the ultimate good luck for any New York writer sort of person, a sort of Independence Day of the spirit, beset as it so often is by a multitude of sins, that pack of snarling wildlife. I’ve heard of Remnick sightings in Central Park among the rocky springs, as well, which warms a piece of my heart.