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It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others... There is a communion of more than our bodies when bread is broken and wine drunk. And that is my answer, when people ask me: Why do you write about hunger, and not wars or love?
That's MFK Fisher, ca. 1943.
I'm now onto The Autograph Man. Not too far in, but it already reminds me more of her short stories than it does White Teeth. This is a good thing, I think, although critics might disagree.
Apparently, the Mad Marquis of Waterford once posted this letter to the London and Greenwich Railway Company:
Sirs:
I am anxious to witness a train smash. If you will allow two of your engines to collide, head on, at full speed, I will contribute a sum of L10,000 to your funds.
Waterford
Thank you George Plimpton, and Endless Feasts.
The heat was awful. If I hadn't've had Ali's Harry Potter I don't know what I would have done. Thursday night I had this terrible my-job-is-incompatible-with-my-lifestyle moment. It was Restaurant Week, and I had reservations at Tabla for an early $20.03 dinner. Except that I also had work. I had mentioned to my dispatchers when I dropped off a change of clothes in the office that morning that I had to leave an hour early. They forgot. And I got dumped on. So it was 4:30 and I was staring at 15 runs that I had to finish in a half hour in order to get back downtown, in and out of the office, and to the restaurant on time. It didn't happen. I finished up at 85th and 3rd at 5:25, gave up on the change-of-clothes idea, and hopped on the 4 express. It was running local, and I was running late. It was all I needed for a silent (if total) mental breakdown-- sick of being hot and covered in crud, and a half hour late to a dinner I couldn't even really afford.
Anyway, that's passed. Or enough, I guess, since I'm driving out to Chicago next weekend to go do this. Which reminds me, I've got a bike to fix.