A meal was no more than a fragile defense against the inevitability of the next meal. Food itself could never answer the question of food; it only delayed the moment when the question would have to be asked in earnest.
—Paul Auster, City of Glass
“Really, you're starving? You can’t just be hungry for a second? Is your life gonna end? You have to constantly shove bread in your hole?”
—Pamela reasons with Louie. (“No,” he says, continuing to eat, chastised and happy, a preview of his love confession in his eyes.)
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My favorite thing I saw at the Albuquerque pride parade, June 30:
A woman carrying a sign with a list of names, her heroes presumably: Allen Ginsberg, Harvey Milk, Susan Sontag, etc. That's where I've always sought any feeling that might be called pride, in a list of names. My list is a lot more selfish, mostly male writers and musicians, from recent decades, that I'd like to be, but I carry it around everywhere I go.
James Baldwin
Joe Brainard
Michael Stipe
Etc. The usual people.
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