reading
Two pages into this book and I'm hooked. I love a male character written by a woman. And Hustvedt's writing is so intimate and precise that I feel that she's talking to me and that I have to listen.
My father died in 1947, when he was only forty-three years old, but my mother lived on. I was their only child, and after my father was gone, my mother and I shared his ghost. […] For twenty-six years she lived in the same apartment on Eighty-fourth Street between Broadway and Riverside with my father's missing future.
This is where I keep track of the things that I read, watch, listen to and make. It's kind of my blog-pinterest-twitter and bookmark folder all in one. I keep it mainly for myself, because I have a bad memory, but it's public because I'm generous like that.