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576 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2004
All the valves opened and she blew her nose against his shirt, cried some more, letting go of twenty-seven years of solitude, of sorrow, of nasty blows to the head, crying for the cuddles she never had, her mother's madness, the paramedics on their knees on the wall-to-wall carpet, her father's absent gazes, the shit she went through, all those years without any respite, ever, the cold, the pleasure of hunger, the wrong paths taken, the self-imposed betrayals, and always that vertigo, the vertigo at the edge of the abyss and of the bottle. And the doubt, her body always in hiding, and the taste of ether and the fear of never being good enough.
…Regarding intellectuals � It’s easy to knock them. Really easy. They’re usually not very muscular and they don’t put up a good fight. It doesn’t turn them on � the sound of marching boots, or medals, or big limos � so, no, it’s not hard to take them down. All you have to do is rip the book from their hands, or the guitar, or the pencil, or the camera, and instantly they turn into useless, hopeless oafs. As a matter of fact, that’s usually the first thing a dictator does: break their eyeglasses, burn their books or ban their concerts. It doesn’t cost him much, and it can help him avoid all sorts of bother further down the line. But, you see, if being an intellectual means you like to learn, that you’re curious and attentive and can admire things and be moved by them and try to understand how it all hangs together, and try to go to bed a bit less stupid than the day before, well, then, yes: not only am I an intellectual but I’m proud to be one. Really proud, even.