Jerome, if I can’t make you live in words, if you are only the dim evocation of a face under a fringe of hair, and the others too, Alice and Christian and Roderigo, if you are names without a nature, it’s not because I don’t remember, no, the opposite is true, you are remembered in me as an endless stirring and turning. But it’s for this precisely that you must forgive me, because in every story of obsession there is only one character, only one plot. I am writing about myself alone, it’s all I know, and for this reason I have always failed in every love, which is to say at the very heart of my life.
He sits in the empty room, crying.
In a Strange Room, Damon Galgut
I wish I had something intelligent to say about this book. I’m only halfway done, but I have the most curious response to reading it. I keep thinking that it’s boring, that I am bored, but I cannot put it down.
