Reading, I’ve decided, is dangerous.
Good books make you fall in love with the writer–and almost always he doesn’t deserve your love. Like you, he crawls out of bed in the middle of the night and sneaks into the bathroom without bothering to put on pants. Like you, he overeats when he’s lonely and spends too much time standing in front of the mirror sucking in his gut. Like you, he thinks people are always looking at him, thinks that his fears and hopes and dreams are etched onto his face.
Reading is dangerous; for those poor sad sacks that need imaginary friends.
December 15, 2008...4:55 am
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