I Felt The Weakness Of These Books,

I Reveled In The Smallness, The Coziness Of An Upstairs Bedroom In A Traditional American Cape Cod House The Half-floor That Forces You To Duck, To Feel Small And Naive Again, Ready For Anything, Dying For Love, Your Body A Chimney Filled With Odd, Black Smoke. These Square, Squat, Awkward Rooms Are Like A Fifty-square-foot Paean To Teenage-hood, To Ripeness, To The First And Last Taste Of Youth.

I Have A Great Memory. And Actually, I Remember Russia In Some Ways Better Than I Remember Queens.

I Wish I Were Stronger And More Secure In Myself So That I Could Really Spend My Life With A Guy Like Lenny. Because He Has A Different Kind Of Strength Than Joshie. He Has The Strength Of His Sweet Tuna Arms. He Has The Strength Of Putting His Nose In My Hair And Calling It Home. He Has The Strength To Cry When I Go Down On Him. Who Is Lenny? Who Does That? Who Will Ever Open Up To Me Like That Again? No One. Because It's Too Dangerous. Lenny Is A Dangerous Man. Joshie Is More Powerful, But Lenny Is Much More Dangerous.

... I'm The Fortieth-ugliest Man In This Bar. But So What! So What! What If Someday She Lets Me Kiss Each One Of Her Freckles Again? She Has Like A Million. But Every One Of Them Means Something To Me. Isn't This How People Used To Fall In Love? I Know We're Living In Rubenstein's America, Like You Keep Saying. But Doesn't That Just Make Us Even More Responsible For Each Other's Fates? I Mean, What If Eunice And I Just Said No To All This. To This Bar. To This Facing. The Two Of Us. What If We Just Went Home And Read Books To Each Other?

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