I'm wrapping up my last of David Sedaris' books. After the next 40 pages, there's nothing else to read.
"And then, depression set in."
There is not, I think, a greater compliment to a writer than murderous contempt. And I compliment the hell out of David Sedaris. I hate his dry, charming, self-effacing narrative voice. I hate his bravery, his life, his sister Amy. I hate his whole brilliant family. I hate his ability to craft sentences that I, given unlimited time and resources, could not craft. Hate, hate, hate.
Does that happen to anyone else? Do you find yourself reading someone's work, laughing away and enjoying yourself, when suddenly you come across something so magnificent that you're overwhelmed with the pettiest jealousies? Happens to me all the time.
I worked from Seattle bars the last two Tuesdays, and I ended up reading Sedaris in each. Note: reading Sedaris in Seattle's black Central District is easy enough, but reading him without interruption on gayest Capitol Hill? An absolute impossibility.