Sublime

That mutual friend—Ed Luce—is remarkably good humored about introducing me to Marne. They both worked for Larry Summers at the Treasury Department.

Poor John Field!—I trust he does not read this, unless he will improve by it—thinking to live by some derivative old-country mode in this primitive new country—to catch perch with shiners. It is good bait sometimes, I allow. With his horizon all his own, yet he a poor man, born to be poor, with his inherited Irish poverty or poor life, his Adam’s g

humans are really good at being Anywhere But Here.

In himself man is essentially a beast, only he butters it over like a slice of bread with a little decorum.

We sat and talked about books and authors, and I gave my best impersonation of a model tenant, a man whose checks wouldn’t bounce and who wouldn’t cause any fuss.

Then he shouldered the mast and started to climb. It was then he knew the depth of his tiredness. He stopped for a moment and looked back and saw in the reflection from the street light the great tail of the fish standing up well behind the skiff’s stern. He saw the white naked line of his backbone and the dark mass of the head with the projecting

Emma is my only real friend, though the jury is still out—the metaphorical jury, of course. The actual one handed down their decision on November 13, 2014, just a few days after Emma testified against me, but I digress.

Henry stopped climbing and stood stock-still, just in the shadow of the trees, and watched, with a terrible fascination. Little by little, foot by foot, the pursuer seemed to be gaining ground on his quarry. Then the slim black figure of the leading skier accelerated, as though propelled by some superhuman force of desperation, and the distance bet

How did we fail him? How did we fail him?