We were hungry. We went into a bakery on Grand Avenue and bought bread. Filled the backseat. The whole car smelled of bread. Big sourdough loaves shaped like a fat ass. Fat-ass bread, I said in Spanish, Nalgona bread. Fat – ass bread, he said in Italian, but I forget how he said it.
We ripped big chunks with our hands and ate. The car a pearl blue like my heart that afternoon. Smell of warm bread, bread in both fists, a tango on the tape player loud, loud, loud, because me and him, we’re the only ones who could stand it like that, like if the bandoneón, violin, piano and, guitar, bass, were inside us, like when he wasn’t married, like before his kids, like if all the pain hadn’t passed between us.
Driving down streets with buildings that remind him, he says, how charming the city is. And me remembering when I was little, a cousin’s baby who died from swallowing rat poison in a building like these.
That’s just how it is. And that’s how we drove. With all his new city memories and all my old. Him kissing me between big bites of bread.
“Jill Soloway would often remind us: ‘Everyone’s always worrying about running out of time, and running out of money, and running out of light. We have enough time, enough money and we are the light.’”—from this great Indiwire article on creating the look of Transparent
“The question “What is literature for?” has something rather childlike about it, like “What’s the point of the moon?”
The answer of course is nothing, but it’s the wrong question. The question is: “What does literature do?” And the answer is that it touches your heart. Joy is a rather unfashionable word, now, which is too bad. I would say the answer to that question is, it gives you joy. And thank goodness for that.”—David Mitchell