“The smell of pantries, the sense of empty afternoons, the feel of things as they rained across our skin, things as facts and passions, the feel of pain, loss, disappointment, breathless delight….this is the space reserved for irony, sympathy and fond amusement, the means by which we rescue ourselves from the past.”
My professor asked me if I had read much Don DeLillo. When I responded, who? He laughed and told me only one the best living American novelists. So I started reading White Noise.
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