Thursday, November 29, 2012

the last book I ever read (The Art of Fielding, excerpt ten)

from The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach:

He wasn’t old but he looked it now, his arms limp at his side, deep lines of worry scored into forehead beneath his mussed gray-silver hair, his expression sad and beseeching. Why was the younger person always the prize, the older person always the striver? Ever since adolescence Pell had been gathering experience in the role of the younger person, the clung-to one, the beloved. That was the idiot hopefulness of humans, always to love what was unformed. Really it made no sense. What were the old hoping the young would become? Something other than old? It hadn’t happened yet. But the old kept trying.

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