Yr. humble servant does not tweet, does not text, does not have a television. I like to read.
Among the thousands of books that have passed through my shelves, let me single out the one I’m most fervent about. A copy sits between my mattress and headboard. It’s there always and I open it often, especially in the morning when starting to write. It’s James Salter’s near-perfect novel, Light Years.
The epigraphs in both my memoirs have come from this book.
From Another Way Home:
“Of them all it was the true love. Of them all, it was the best. That other, that sumptuous love which made one drunk, which one longed for, envied, believed in, that was not life. It was what life was seeking; it was a suspension of life. But to be close to a child, for whom one spent everything, whose life was protected and nourished by one’s own, to have that child beside one, at peace, was the real, the deepest, the only joy.”
From The Last of His Mind:
“It was all leaving her in slow, imperceptible movements, like the tide when one’s back is turned: everyone, everything she had known. So all of grief and happiness, far from being buried with one, vanished beforehand except for scattered pieces. She lived among forgotten episodes, unknown faces bereft of names, closed off from the very world she had created; that was how it came to be. But I must show nothing of that, she thought. Her children—she must not reveal it to them.”