You Are Not What You Want. You

Then I Celebrated My Wall Of Books. I Counted The Volumes On My Twenty-foot-long Modernist Bookshelf To Make Sure None Had Been Misplaced Or Used As Kindling By My Subtenant. “you’re My Sacred Ones,” I Told The Books. “no One But Me Still Cares About You. But I’m Going To Keep You With Me Forever. And One Day I’ll Make You Important Again.” I Thought About That Terrible Calumny Of The New Generation: That Books Smell.

People Always Write On My Facebook That They've Seen Somebody They Thought Was Me On The Subway, And I Was Cursing Badly.

I Love Paul Giamatti - God, That Man Is Like A Walking Chekhov. His Connection To Humanity Is Unbelievable, And Those Feelings Of Low Self-esteem - The Way That All Comes Together On The Screen? Delicious.

The Radio Station Was Playing Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, A Sure Sign That Things Were Much Worse Than They Appeared.

American Fiction Is Good. It Would Be Nice If Somebody Read It.