Fact-checking Is So Boring Compared

Like Seeing A Photograph Of Yourself As A Child, Encountering Handwriting That You Know Was Once Yours But That Now Seems Only Dimly Familiar Can Inspire A Confrontation With The Mystery Of Time.

Fact-checking Is So Boring Compared To Writing Fiction.

Words Are The Raw Material Out Of Which Literature Is Crafted.

'one Hundred Years Of Solitude' Convinced Me To Drop Out Of Harvard Graduate School. The Novel Reminded Me Of Everything My Ph.d. Program Was Trying To Make Me Forget. Thank You, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

But If I Were Asked To Pick One Constant, One Quality That Seems Dependable, Immutable, Endlessly Available, I'd Say That It Was Intensity. For Nothing In Sicily Seems Withheld, Done Half Way, Restrained Or Suppressed. There's Nothing To Correspond To Say, The Ironic, The Cerebral Remove At Which A Frenchman Might Consider An Idea Or A Question, Or The Scandinavian Distrust Of The Sloppy, Emotive Response.