Big writers become a kind of shared climate.
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Anand Thakur
Big writers become a kind of shared climate.
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The overwhelming and underlying desire for something truly terrible to happen so that you could have something really hot to talk about – was still startling.
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The reality is that the British monarchy, for good or ill, is a modern political institution – perhaps the first modern political institution.
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I still think the best classic meal in New York is a coffee-shop breakfast – you sort of can’t skip it.
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I think that we’re always drawn – particularly sophisticated people – are always drawn to the idea of simplicity.
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Of all the unexpected things in contemporary literature, this is among the oddest: that kids have an inordinate appetite for very long, very tricky, very strange books about places that don’t exist…
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The first visitor has an easier time, but I think the second visitor sees more.
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I am a guilty party here – to take, or get, undue credit for domestic virtue, when in truth cooking is the most painless and, in its ways, ostentatious of the domestic chores.
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Leafing through Forbes or Fortune [magazine]s is like reading the operating manual of a strangely sanctimonious pirate ship
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You can stand up and tell a story that is made entirely, embarrassingly, of “I’s,” and a listening audience somehow turns each “I” into a “me.”
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The sin of capitalism, perhaps, is to make wants feel like needs, to give to simple silly stuff the urgency of near-physical necessity: I must have it.
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Dinner with water is dinner for prisoners
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New York has always been a place where it is possible to have memories without the experience that conventionally precede them.
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All tastes have the quality of being in some way artificial and invented. The secret of life is to have enough detachment from your tastes and your values to see that they are a little bit absurd.
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Of having seen something large and having found the right words to say it small, small enough to enter an individual mind so that the strong ideas of what the words are saying sound like sweet reason.
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It was the grander French one: Why not kill yourself tonight? That the answers come to much the same thing in the end-easy does it
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