lundi 17 janvier 2011

Eric Bogosian, PERFORATED HEART, New York, Simon & Schuster, 2009, 271 pages.

I can't write. I can't move. What's the point of writing? To preserve my reputation? To make money? I have plenty of money. Plenty of reputation. The problem is that my reputation wil wither and die if I don't come up with new work. I have to generate new writing to keep the old writing alive. Like children working for their father. One nedds many children to survive. Even if the children will never be as great as the father.
I guess my first book of short stories will live on no matter what. A task completed over twenty years ago, when I didn't know my ass from my elbow. Now that I know how to write, now that I have something interesting to say, no one cares. Or the critics completely misunderstand. The irony is that I am the caretaker of the young man I once was. He's my responsibility.
(p. 122)

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