I think that’s very particular to you. It shows a certain chameleon-like ability.


I don’t think it is that chameleon-like. What I’m saying is I’ve written the same book three times. I just somehow got away with it.


One time, in a Vancouver bookstore on that cresting bit of W. Broadway I fiercely protested another browser buying (not even—just holding, considering) Kazuo Ishiguro’s Remains of the Day. A couple of years earlier I’d gotten about 30 pages into the book, curricula reading for an undergraduate “World Literature” course, before giving up on account of it being, well, too stoic and arcane to fuck with.

Feeling embarrassed at my presumptuous interjection now, years later, after reading Ishiguro share fun, easy wisdom in an interview with The Paris Review. Will forever be into pithy self-deprecation.

Feature: Santigold