Youth Is The Only Sexy

Jenny Offill's Dept. Of Speculation Resembles No Book I've Read Before. If I Tell You That It's Funny, And Moving, And True; That It's As Compact And Mysterious As A Neutron; That It Tells A Profound Story Of Love And Parenthood While Invoking (among Others) Keats, Kafka, Einstein, Russian Cosmonauts, And Advice For The Housewife Of 1896, Will You Please Simply Believe Me, And Read It?

I Suspect Any Serious Reader Has A First Great Book, Just The Way Anybody Has A First Kiss.

You Could Say I Don't Want For Me Be Seen Primarily As A Gay Writer. I've Never Hidden My Sexuality. It Matters That I'm Gay, It Matters That I'm White, It Matters That I'm Male, It Matters That I'm American. But Basically It's Just Less And Less Of A Big Deal.

Like The Morning You Walked Out Of That Old House, When You Were Eighteen And I Was, Well, I Had Just Turned Nineteen, Hadn't I? I Was A Nineteen-year-old And I Was In Love With Louis And I Was In Love With You, And I Thought I Had Never Seen Anything So Beautiful As The Sight Of You Walking Out A Glass Door In The Early Morning, Still Sleepy, In Your Underwear. Isn't It Strange?

What Does It Mean To Regret When You Have No Choice? It's What You Can Bear. And There It Is... It Was Death. I Chose Life.