Speaking, Over Her Left Shoulder And Toward His Reflection In The Mirror While Untangling The Knots From Her Hair, Of David Foster Wallace’s Review Of John Updike’s ‘Toward The End Of Time’ By Nick Thran
That “peculiarly American loneliness:
the prospect of dying without even once
having loved anyone more than yourself”
is not that peculiar, not just American,
and not really interesting, at fucking all.