His table is draped in a white cloth and topped with
countless books and papers, a water cup, an ashtray, a lamp with a yellowed shade. Light
pours from the windows and tumbles over potted cactuses and family ephemera —
everything in the house belongs to the Bergiers, with the exception of
Harrison’s supplies. Though the author doesn’t “want to think about how much
time” he’s spent in that room, he does acknowledge its effect on his craft.
“This feels like the right place,” he says. “Writers worry
that they’re not in the right space, but I don’t. Not here. There’s so much wild country,
and I have my ideal neighbors. No one.”
So he writes and he smokes — American Spirits, one right after another. They’ve turned his voice to silt and his skin the color of an old catcher’s mitt, yet he lights them with the longing of a man consumed.
So he writes and he smokes — American Spirits, one right after another. They’ve turned his voice to silt and his skin the color of an old catcher’s mitt, yet he lights them with the longing of a man consumed.
No comments:
Post a Comment