Friday, March 29, 2013
On the train home for Easter break #parisreview

On the train home for Easter break #parisreview

Thursday, July 12, 2012

We cannot be all the writers all the time. We can only be who we are. Which leads me to my second point: writers do not write what they want, they write what they can. When I was 21 I wanted to write like Kafka. But, unfortunately for me, I wrote like a script editor for The Simpsons who’d briefly joined a religious cult and then discovered Foucault. Such is life. And now, when I finish a long day of CNN-related fear and loathing mixed with eyeballing my own resolutely white screen, I do not crawl into bed with 500-page comic novels about (God help me, but it’s OK; I’m going to call on the safety of quote marks) “multicultural” London. I read Carver. Julio Cortázar. Amis’s essays. Baldwin. Lorrie Moore. Capote. Saramago. Larkin. Wodehouse. Anything, anything at all, that doesn’t sound like me.


Sick of sound of own voice. Sick of trying to make own voice appear on that white screen. Sick of trying to pretend, for sake of agent and family, that idea of putting words on blank page feels important.

Zadie Smith (via muscovite)
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Sunday, May 6, 2012

End of the week always demands celebration.

Most confusing lunch break ever.

Most confusing lunch break ever.

Fresh graduate from biz school currently slaving away in a bank. This was just bound to happen.

Fresh graduate from biz school currently slaving away in a bank. This was just bound to happen.

Monday, April 16, 2012

His grief, it’s hinted, is all prospective. He’s mourning the future, not the past. While fondly shampooing his son’s hair, he remembers the day when his own body grew long enough to touch both ends of the bathtub at the same time. ”This is all too much for me,” he thinks, realizing that his son’s day will come, too. For now, Emmett couldn’t be happier, but tomorrow? His is a largely undiscovered species of male American midlife crisis, and one that most novelists wouldn’t know what do with, because its subtle menace is beyond them. Women unconquered and alpine summits unscaled aren’t what’s haunting Emmett. His demon is joy. The man is peaking, he’s hitting his stride — the horror!

Walter Kirn, NYTimes
I read the book and then I read Kirn’s fabulous (and enlightening) review.
(I always feel a bit guilty when I like a review better than the book it’s about - that happens frequently)

His grief, it’s hinted, is all prospective. He’s mourning the future, not the past. While fondly shampooing his son’s hair, he remembers the day when his own body grew long enough to touch both ends of the bathtub at the same time. ”This is all too much for me,” he thinks, realizing that his son’s day will come, too. For now, Emmett couldn’t be happier, but tomorrow? His is a largely undiscovered species of male American midlife crisis, and one that most novelists wouldn’t know what do with, because its subtle menace is beyond them. Women unconquered and alpine summits unscaled aren’t what’s haunting Emmett. His demon is joy. The man is peaking, he’s hitting his stride — the horror!

Walter Kirn, NYTimes

I read the book and then I read Kirn’s fabulous (and enlightening) review.

(I always feel a bit guilty when I like a review better than the book it’s about - that happens frequently)

Saturday, April 14, 2012
Had the most lovely lunch break last Tuesday, but as the empty bottle of wine suggests, I had quite a lot of alcohol in my body. It hasn’t been easy staying awake that afternoon. 

Had the most lovely lunch break last Tuesday, but as the empty bottle of wine suggests, I had quite a lot of alcohol in my body. It hasn’t been easy staying awake that afternoon. 

Throughout my 20s and early 30s — my two-books-per-week years — I did most of my reading at the International House of Pancakes. David Sedaris, NYTimes
Monday, April 9, 2012
I can’t imagine writing, without irony, about people who are happy all the time. Ann Beattie, The Art of Fiction No.209, Paris Review 196