a kind of magical thinking takes over…by middle of the novel, I mean whatever page you are on when you stop being a part of your household and your family and your partner and children and food shopping and dog feeding and reading the post. I mean when there’s nothing in the world except your book. and even as your wife tells you she is sleeping with your brother, her face is a gigantic semicolon, her arms are parentheses and you are wondering whether rummage is a better verb than rifle.
What would I do without Zadie Smith? Or NPR, for that matter.
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