me: *scrolling through blog* wow this is a sick ass blog
me: wait this is my blog
me: *keeps scrolling*
I love Zadie Smith because of her wit and humor and attention to detail.
I love Djuna Barnes for her vivid descriptions. I love her for her underlying terror and tension.
I love Nella Larsen because her little was a lot.
I love Francoise Sagan because of the ease of her prose.
I love Ernest Hemingway because I am comfortable liking problematic things.
I love Jamaica Kincaid because her sentences are the way we often think: not in succinct statements but in long bursts of energy.
I love Toni Morrison because her words demand strength, because she saw quickly in herself greatness and demanded that recognition with each line.
I love Marguerite Duras because she understands sensuality and exploits it for her gain.
I love Junot Diaz because the hyper-masculine and the hyper-vulnerable are rarely seen together.
I love Sloane Crosley because she is the writer I’ve always wanted to be, eventually, hopefully.
I love James Baldwin because no one saw the world more clearly.
I love D.H. Lawrence even though I feel like I probably shouldn’t.
I love Jane Austen because I was one of those girls who lived vicariously through her favorite novels.
I love Kathy Acker because rawness is realness.