[b]Meg Wolitzer
…to find out what another human being feels, a person who isn’t you; to get a look under the hood, so to speak. A deep look inside. That’s what writing is supposed to do.[/b]
Let’s file this one under, “fat chance”. At least I would.
…sometimes a mindfuck was a satisfying and productive fuck after all.
Most times though not.
No one ever told you that in moment of crisis, family was allowed to trump friendship.
Or: No one ever told you that in moment of crisis, friendship was allowed to trump family.
[no pun intended?]
I always thought talent was everything, but maybe it was always money. Or even class. Or if not class exactly, connections.
That’s just the postmodern way of course.
When you located someone from the past online, it was like finding that person trapped behind glass in the permanent collection of a museum. You knew they were still there, and it seemed to you as if they would stay there forever.
He thought, “good”. Not counting Sharon of course.
Like everyone we knew, we did what we could to protest the war. We signed, and we worked, and we brought our children with us to storefront offices to make calls and type letters. We used mimeographs, the purple ink getting all over us, the place smelling like a schoolroom, and we headed down to D.C. in a long, fossilized traffic jam of cars. The children cried in the backseat, and we pushed them on the Mall in strollers while they begged for juice, their faces blazing with heat, and Joe was among the writers who stood up and screamed into screechy, inadequate mikes.
The last four wars at least.