Apparently Brooklyn needn't always push itself to be something else, something conscious and anxious, something pointed toward Manhattan.... Brooklyn might sometimes also be pleased, as here on Flatbush, to be its grubby, enduring self.
Jonathan LethemTag: self brooklyn enduring grubby
You could grow up in the city where history was made and still miss it all.
Jonathan LethemTag: new-york-city making-history missing-out witnessing-history
It was a rebus of heartbreak, misfortune a dog could parse.
Jonathan LethemMy inner chemistry had been hijacked by a mad scientist, who poured the fizzy, volatile contents of my heart from a test tube marked SOBER REALITY into another labeled SUNNY DELUSION, and back again, faster and faster, until the floor of my life was slick with spillage.
Jonathan LethemMy heart and the elevator, a plummet inside a plummet.
Jonathan LethemMy heart, to put it more simply, got nostalgic for the present. Always a bad sign.
Jonathan LethemHowever appalling to consider, however tedious to enact, every novel requires furniture, whether it is to be named or unnamed, for the characters will be unable to remain in standing position for the duration of the story.
Jonathan LethemThere are no metaphysics.
Jonathan LethemTag: humor
Today the tower's flock, the usual birds, flew in a kind of scatter pattern, their paths intricately chaotic, the bunch parting and interweaving like boiling pasta under a pot's lifted lid. It appeared someone had given the birds new instructions, had whispered that there was something to avoid, or someone to fool. I once heard Perkus Tooth say that he'd woken that morning having dreamed an enigmatic sentence: "Paranoia is a flower in the brain." Perkus offered this, then smirked and bugged his eyes--the ordinary eye, and the other. I played at amazement (I was amazed, anyway, at the fact that Perkus dreamed sentences to begin with). Yet I hadn't understood what the words meant to him until now, when I knew for a crucial instant that the birds had been directed to deceive me. That was when I saw the brain's flower. Perkus had, I think, been trying to prepare me for how beautiful it was.
Jonathan LethemI jotted the name down mentally on that tattered notepad I call a memory. The pen skipped.
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