He is not quite here.

December 22, 2014 § Leave a comment

A writer knows that he is a writer when he has lived long enough to see that his writing defines, as clearly as a graph, his life. The shock of this is not caused by anything so homely and acceptable as “the record of the passing years,” or the recognition that his work is uneven or inadequate to his desire for its excellence, but by the fact that this “graph” is not a metaphor for his life, but a merciless representation of it. It is as if his work finally unmasks itself as the log wherein recorded is the vast amount of time that he has spent at a distance from the world in which everyone else lives. This log tells him that he is not quite here.

— Gilbert Sorrentino, Something Said, 1984.

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