Zoë Stagg

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I stalled out three pages into Kavalier and Clay. I will give it another chance, probably, I am just coming to terms with the fact that I will never be as interested in fake people as real ones. I think this makes me not crazy. So the realist’s happy compromise is reading true-talk from people famous for writing fantasy. Manhood for Amateurs was fine, at points poignant. Most especially: The confirmed stick-in-the-mud will always fall victim to the interventions of other people acting on impulse, because if habit is his religion, then his Satan is change, and in the end, we are all prey to temptation. And musing on the shrinking landscape for childhood adventure on the creation of future artists with wild imaginations is sad. It’s an argument for being an open-door parent*. Until I was 10, I could go as far as the stop sign at Route 44 when I was at Nancy and Frank’s, and this seems like boundary enough. But though I see photos of San Francisco and remember the hills and hidden parks and houses wistfully, this book reminds me it’s best in photos. The “Berkeley” in it is thick and sticky like a movie theater floor. In any event, taking a trip into man-mind is amusing for a couple of days (Book #20**), if only for the Legos. *I also toy with letting the cats out when I’m not supervised. What’s the worst that could happen? They’re like 1940s sanitarium kids locked up in here. **Book #21 was chick-lit, checked out on impulse.

I stalled out three pages into Kavalier and Clay. I will give it another chance, probably, I am just coming to terms with the fact that I will never be as interested in fake people as real ones. I think this makes me not crazy.

So the realist’s happy compromise is reading true-talk from people famous for writing fantasy. Manhood for Amateurs was fine, at points poignant. Most especially:

The confirmed stick-in-the-mud will always fall victim to the interventions of other people acting on impulse, because if habit is his religion, then his Satan is change, and in the end, we are all prey to temptation.

And musing on the shrinking landscape for childhood adventure on the creation of future artists with wild imaginations is sad. It’s an argument for being an open-door parent*. Until I was 10, I could go as far as the stop sign at Route 44 when I was at Nancy and Frank’s, and this seems like boundary enough.

But though I see photos of San Francisco and remember the hills and hidden parks and houses wistfully, this book reminds me it’s best in photos. The “Berkeley” in it is thick and sticky like a movie theater floor.

In any event, taking a trip into man-mind is amusing for a couple of days (Book #20**), if only for the Legos.

*I also toy with letting the cats out when I’m not supervised. What’s the worst that could happen? They’re like 1940s sanitarium kids locked up in here.

**Book #21 was chick-lit, checked out on impulse.