I Don’t Want To Fade Away, I

There's Something Very Strange About Associating Me With That Prize. I Had Hoped For It In A More Directed Way As A Journalist. Somehow As A Journalist You Know There Are Pulitzers Out There And You Can Work Hard And Get One. To Win It For Fiction Seems Unbelievable.

Happened As I Listened: I Felt Pain. Not In My Head, Not In My Arm, Not In My Leg; Everywhere At Once. I Told Myself There Was No Difference Between Being “inside” And Being “outside,” That It All Came Down To X’s And O’s That Could Be Acquired In Any Number Of Different Ways, But The Pain Increased To A Point Where I Thought I Might Collapse, And I Limped Away.

I Find Myself Thinking More About The Past As I Get Older... Maybe Because There's Just More Of It To Think About. At The Same Time, I'm Less Haunted By It Than I Was As A Younger Person. I Guess That's Probably The Ideal: To Reach A Point Where You Have Access To All Of Your Memories, But You Don't Feel Victimized By Them.

They Resumed Walking. Alex Felt An Ache In His Eyes And Throat. "i Don't Know What Happened To Me," He Said, Shaking His Head. "i Honestly Don't." Bennie Glanced At Him, A Middle-aged Man With Chaotic Silver Hair And Thoughtful Eyes. "you Grew Up, Alex," He Said, "just Like The Rest Of Us.

Even The Financial Disclosure Statements That Political Bloggers Were Required To Post Hadn't Stemmed The Suspicion That People's Opinions Weren't Really Their Own. "who's Paying You?" Was A Retort That Might Follow Any Bout Of Enthusiasm, Along With Laughter - Who Would Let Themselves Be Bought?