In this book I grapple with the question of: how does one ever really *know* that one is comfortable? Could there not always be some greater comfort attainable? Must we strive endlessly for the perfect place to nap? Can we ever find contentment napping where we are?
Oh also, if anyone asks in an interview about whether that's him on the cover, he has to start talking about autofiction and the author as insider and the need to blur lines between fiction ('sheer artifice') and memoir ('the edited past') and then start licking his butt (not answering the question)
His big litfic hits were in the late 90s so he's FRANTICALLY striving for relevance now and sometimes younger editors are still so awed by his past reputation that they ask him to blurb something
Oh, did he write the one about the middle-aged English professor in a failing marriage who falls in love with one of his students and it reminds him what being alive feels like?
No no, he wrote the one about how the famous novelist's wife is old and ugly and her devotion is boring him so he goes to Hollywood to try to get a screenplay produced and he falls in love with one of the production assistants and it makes him feel alive
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It's not about the pets or the humans at all, you see. It's about how Risqué *feels* about the pets. And also hairballs.
His big litfic hits were in the late 90s so he's FRANTICALLY striving for relevance now and sometimes younger editors are still so awed by his past reputation that they ask him to blurb something