My days had a pleasant identicalness about them. I had always liked that: I liked routine. I liked being bored. I didn’t want to but I did.
I wanted only a familiar voice, someone who knew me. Not some earlier, larval version of myself. . .
The story of my family. . . changes with the teller.
It was a lesson most people learned much earlier; that even friendship could have an undisclosed shelf life. That loyalty and affection, so consuming and powerful, could dissipate like fog.
The human heart: its expansions and contractions its electrics and hydraulics the warm tides that move and fill it. For years Art had studied it from a safe distance from many perspectives. . . he listened in fascination and revulsion, in envy and pity. He dispensed canned wisdom, a little scripture. He sent them on their way with a prayer.
That renunciation of human closeness, of our deepest instincts: is it, in the end, simply too much to ask? Good men-sound, healthy men-can't make the sacrifice, or don't want to; has Holy Mother settled for the unsound and unhealthy? Has the Church, ever pragmatic, made do with what is left?
Writing fiction, like reading fiction, is a practice in empathy.
I'm not used to studios being ecstatic about we did and saying, "Please go do that again. "
I will talk about it on Monday. I will answer every one of their questions. I always feel nervous when I have to go to court. This is like going to court. But I will be prepared.
By the time I got to college I had stopped reading books because I wanted to "be cool" and started reading books simply because I wanted to read them. I discovered heroes like Roth, King, Dahl, Shirley Jackson, Patricia Highsmith, TC Boyle, Douglas Adams, Neil Gaiman, David Sedaris. These people weren't trying to "rebel against the literary establishment. " They were trying to write great, high-quality books that were as entertaining and moving as possible.
Every improvement in communication makes the bore more terrible.