…
I rarely inhale books. My pursuit of the ending is more methodical, incremental. I observe clusters of pages pressed between dog-eared implements; evidence thereof. I won’t go so far as to describe Didion’s book as the finest I’ve read, or anything near, but it was lovely enough. Sad and spacious and empty, her characters were this perfect reflection of their landscape [Los Angeles, Vegas, the desert around]. There were pages where one could feel the delirious heat of an insufferable valley day, feel out the lack of cohesion it brought to a series of thoughts. Maria falling from place to person, falling apart with careful thought, falling apart as her externalities demanded.
…
One thing in my defense, not that it matters: I know something Carter never knew, or Helene, or maybe you. I know what “nothing” means, and keep on playing.
Why, BZ would say.
Why not, I say.
