Wanda now had her own ménage-à-trois going. Two philosophers at once (even if one of them induced nausea).
Camus, Sartre, and Wanda. You don’t hear much about literary love triangles these days. Shame.
If we speak only to praise—and my children can vouch that I’ve never been guilty of that—then praise itself becomes cheapened, and ultimately meaningless.
Praise directs attention and there is only so much attention to go around.
His crutch words are gone. His plot has been untangled. The characters are no longer just cardboard cut-outs slotted into gaps but rather living, breathing entities, emotionally resonant and utterly believable.
The guess here is that the ability to sell direct effectively will be seen as a necessary survival skill for publishers by two years from now, if not sooner.
I’m taking the under.