Yesterday at the cafeteria, a girl sat down at my table and pulled out Reborn, which I was also reading. Oh my God, she said. Weird, I said, what page are you on? 267, she said. I'm on 287.
I finished it this morning on the train. I loved this book. More excerpts:
[Undated, February 1960]
In America, the cult of popularity--wanting to be liked by everyone, including people you don't like.
Role of scientists vis-a-vis American economy (dependent on preparing for war) is like couturiers in world of clothing--to create standards of obsolescence, so that last years' [sic] can be scrapped.
Writing is a beautiful act. It is making something that will give pleasure to others later.
Some years ago I realized that reading made me sick, that I was like an alcoholic who nevertheless experiences a bad hangover after each binge. After an hour or two browsing in a bookstore, I felt numb, restless, depressed. But I didn't know why. And I couldn't keep away from the stuff.
The reason most things look better once bought and out of the store--even on the bus ride home--is that they have already begun to be loved.