The Writer’s Life Is A Life Of

An Ink Bottle, Which Now Seems Impossibly Quaint, Was Still Thinkable As A Symbol In 1970.

The Mekons Were Kind Of Like The Background Music Of My Life.

Life, In Her Experience, Had A Kind Of Velvet Luster. You Looked At Yourself From One Perspective And All You Saw Was Weirdness. Move Your Head A Little Bit, Though, And Everything Looked Reasonably Normal.

Each New Thing He Encountered In Life Impelled Him In A Direction That Fully Convinced Him Of Its Rightness, But Then The Next New Thing Loomed Up And Impelled Him In The Opposite Direction, Which Also Felt Right. There Was No Controlling Narrative: He Seemed To Himself A Purely Reactive Pinball In A Game Whose Only Object Was To Stay Alive For Staying Alive's Sake.

It Took Hours To Turn The Clock Back 30 Seconds.