The subway was as much my home as my empty rooms in various apartments I shared with various people in various Brooklyn neighborhoods. I read more there than I did in my post-graduate studies. I would look up between pages, and the world on the train somehow reflected Matthiessen’s everglades, or Garcia Marquez’s Macondo, or Faulkner’s Yoknapatawpha County—teeming with characters I thought I remembered reading in books, families I wished were mine. On the 7 train on the way to and from my first job I read a photocopy of Joan Didion's “Goodbye to All That." A former professor had given it to me when she found out I was moving to New York. Didion’s Goodbye was my Hello, and her That was my This.
Just added to The List and the Story: My Aughts
