In which I discuss another book as a way to throw into bold relief what this book is about.
In which I evoke my character and personality, especially the way I always argue against myself, am ridiculously ambivalent—who knew?
In which I characterize love as a religion w/fallible gods.
Exploration of melancholy, in myself and the general populace.
Partial answer to question asked in previous chapter: we’re the only animal that knows it will die.
In which I make various self-destructive gestures, flirt none too successfully or seriously with suicide, pull back from the brink via the written word.
The only books I care about strip the writer naked and, in that way, have at least the chance of conveying some real knowledge of our shared predicament.
Do I still love literature?
How it didn’t.