When I received the advanced reader's copy of the book, I thought of my therapist. Without the work we had done together I wouldn't have had the presence of mind to finish the book, let alone appreciate holding it.
The surest way to kill the aliveness of our characters is by insisting that they always make sense. When we follow the labyrinth of most conversations, we discover one constant: people always want something.
The appropriation of a piece of literature to a certain genre is a process descriptive of the political moment in which the text finds itself; it's indicative of what's permitted to be described as fact in a particular cultural atmosphere, whether it's intended to be or not.
Like all dreams, it's hard to know exactly when this one started. Maybe it was the day way way back in April of 1985 when I walked away from a plum job as a staff reporter for The Wall Street Journal in New York, pushing my infant daughter Jocelyn in her carriage.
Years later, she tries to focus on the details: the cinnamon sugar sticking to her shoulder. The thick fold of leaves overhead. The cold buttered toast wrapped in tin foil. The smell of his sweat mixed into the smell of pine needles.