Sunday, April 7, 2024

the last book I ever read (Jernigan: A Novel by David Gates, excerpt thirteen)

from Jernigan: A Novel by David Gates:

“I don’t know,” she said. “You find out you just don’t know anything.”

The rest I remember only in patches. The point is, we got to St. Vincent’s okay and our son, Daniel, was born at about eleven-thirty that night. In the waiting room—that was how long ago this was—I tried to concentrate on making sense of “The Comedian as the Letter C,” figuring I might as well use the time intelligently. That was how young I was. I kept staring at this one line—“The ruses that were shattered by the large”—and wondering how personally I should take it.

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