I already knew my future husband* was not only handsome but also very good at acting. Even if I was doubting of his adapting-Faulkner’s novel skills. And I guessed he was quite clever, preparing a PHD at Yale.
But I didn’t expect he was such a great author. I was delighted when I was reading the Palo Alto collection of shorts stories. It is witty, ironic, tense, rhythmic (“if he knew I wanted to kill him, he would kill me first. In the old day you could duel. Emotions have been around forever. I wish I had a girlfriend. Or someone”), funny and startling well portrayed.
Reading it, I felt like I was watching a Larry Clark movie. It’s an hopeless youth described here; this is kind of a downbeat manifesto. Yet it is humoristic: « Farmers, Italians and sociopaths kill cats. Sociopaths piss in their beds. French people use their piss as perfume. » But at the end, it remains dark : « I don’t know what he thinks he is, or why he thinks he exists. I guess in some people’s lives, no one tells you what to be, and so you be nothing ».
Have he been told to be something?