Sublime

averred.

lurid

the world winnowed to this immediate moment.

Alone by choice on Saturday nights, writing by an open window in his studio apartment, Gregory had experienced a kind of euphoria: a swelling, bursting, yearning hunger that had something in common with lust but included everyone, from the revelers outside his window to the carousers down the hall. He was where he wanted to be, and needed nothing e

Leigh’s elm, Jean’s ash, Emmett’s ironwood, and Adam’s maple, each made from identical green puffballs.

bought ten years ago in an access of nostalgic optimism and has driven until all its secret flaws seem indistinguishable from his own.

echt

beautiful, unexpected relief.

And the artists were the worst, the painters and the writers, because they believed they were living for art when they were really feeding their narcissism.