Michael Chabon

I met a woman whose short stories have broken my heart over and over again for the last 15 years and saw only the withered neck and hollow stare of a woman who had wasted her life. I shook hands with colleagues in the department whom I had good reasons to admire and like, and heard their false laughter, and felt their discomfort with their bodies and their status and their clothes, and smelled the stink of sweet beer and whiskey on their breath.