I Encourage The Translators Of My Books

Jenny Offill's Dept. Of Speculation Resembles No Book I've Read Before. If I Tell You That It's Funny, And Moving, And True; That It's As Compact And Mysterious As A Neutron; That It Tells A Profound Story Of Love And Parenthood While Invoking (among Others) Keats, Kafka, Einstein, Russian Cosmonauts, And Advice For The Housewife Of 1896, Will You Please Simply Believe Me, And Read It?

Philip Glass, Like [virginia] Woolf, Is More Interested In That Which Continues Than He Is In That Which Begins, Climaxes, And Ends... Glass And Woolf Have Both Broken Out Of The Traditional Realm Of The Story, Whether Literary Or Musical, In Favor Of Something More Meditative, Less Neatly Delineated, And More True To Life. For Me, Glass [finds] In Three Repeated Notes Something Of [a] Rapture Of Sameness.

Youth Is The Only Sexy Tragedy. It's James Dean Jumping Into His Porsche Spyder, It's Marilyn Heading Off To Bed.

What Do You Do When You're No Longer The Hero Of Your Own Story?

A Stray Fact: Insects Are Not Drawn To Candle Flames, They Are Drawn To The Light On The Far Side Of The Flame, They Go Into The Flame And Sizzle To Nothingness Because They're So Eager To Get To The Light On The Other Side.