You really write the books you want to write. You can’t take into consideration anything that anybody has said about you in the past, or what they’ll say about you in the future.
He was simply someone who floated through our lives and didn’t seem to care how flatly he perceived everyone or that he’d shared our secret failures with the world, showcasing the youthful indifference, the gleaming nihilism, glamorizing the horror of it all.
She sits before me, sullen but hopeful, characterless, about to dissolve into tears. I squeeze her hand back, moved, no, touched by her ignorance of evil. She has one more test to pass. Do you own a briefcase?” I ask her, swallowing.
So what do I do? Toss a handful of change into the tank when none of the zookeepers are watching. It’s not the seals I hate——it’s the audience’s enjoyment of them that bothers me.
I learned that you really don’t have any control as a writer. Waah, waah, waah. Big deal. Unless you’re the director on the movie, or putting up the money for the movie, you really don’t have a lot of control.
But this road doesn’t go anywhere,” I told him. “That doesn’t matter.” “What does?” I asked, after a little while. “Just that we’re on it, dude,” he said.
Hello, Halberstam,” Owen says, walking by. Hello, Owen,” I say, admiring the way he’s styled and slicked back his hair, with a part so even and sharp it…
