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The things I keep going back to, rereading, maybe they say more about me as a reader than about the books. Love in the Time of Cholera, Pale Fire.

Michael Chabon

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Michael Chabon
Age: 61
Born: 1963
Born: May 24
Author
Columnist
Essayist
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Television Producer
Writer
Washington
District of Columbia
Leon Chaim Bach
Malachi B. Cohen
August Van Zorn
Things
Reader
Time
Fire
Love
Maybe
Books
Keep
Rereading
Back
Cholera
Book
Pale
Going
Quitting

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Bina, thank you. Bina, listen, this guy. His name wasn't Lasker. This guy-' She puts a hand to his mouth. She has not touched him in three years. It probably would be too much to say that he feels the darkness lift at the touch of her fingertips against his lips. But it shivers, and light bleeds in among the cracks.
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I saw a lot of lousy movies and watched a ton of crappy television and read a bunch of utterly forgettable books and comics and listened to hours of junk music as a kid. And I'm still drawing profitably in my own art on some of the tawdry treasure I stored up in those years.
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His dreams had always been Houdiniesque: they were the dreams of a pupa struggling in its blind cocoon, mad for a taste of light and air.
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To me, Clark Kent in a phone booth and Houdini in a packing crate, they were one and the same thing, he would learnedly expound at WonderCon or Angoulême or to the editor of The Comics Journal . You weren't the same person when you came out as when you went in.
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As long as she was falling in love with me, I might as well start making her promises I didn't intend to keep.
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There's nothing more embarrassing than to have earned the disfavor of a perceptive animal.
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I’m a man who falls in love so easily, and with such reckless lack of consideration for the consequences of my actions, that from the very first instant of entering into a marriage I become, almost by definition, an adulterer.
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I was thinking, too, of Superman and his fortress of solitude.
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[While writing], I'll go anywhere I find that is quiet, has no internet. I have a big internet problem.
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I have a deadline. I'm glad. I think that will help me get it done.
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The two dozen commonplace childhood photographs - snowsuit, pony, tennis racket, looming fender of a Dodge - were an inexhaustible source of wonder for him, at her having existed before he met her, and of sadness for his possessing nothing of the ten million minutes of that black-and-white scallop-edged existence save these few proofs.
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The fundamental truth: a baseball game is nothing but a great slow contraption for getting you to pay attention to the cadence of a summer day.
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Fathering imposed an obligation that was more than your money, your body, or your time, a presence neither physical nor measurable by clocks: open-ended, eternal, and invisible, like the commitment of gravity to the stars.
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No he could be ruined again and again by hope, but he would never be capable of belief.
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He had no idea of how long his life would one day seem to have gone on how daily present the absence of love would come to feel. “Just watch me,” he said.
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And then the man reminded Max, with a serious but suave and practiced air, that freedom was a debt that could be repaid only by purchasing the freedom of others.
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So it was scary, but that's how it goes. To my great delight, I discovered that it did all belong.
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That evening I rode downtown on an unaccountably empty bus, sitting in the last row. At the front I saw a thin cloud of smoke rising around the driver’s head. ‘Hey, bus driver,’ I said. ‘Can I smoke?’ ‘May I,’ said the bus driver. ‘I love you,’ I said.
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... and because it was a drunken perception, it was perfect, entire, and lasted about half a second.
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I knew that I shouldn’t have, but I did it all the same and there you have my epitaph, or one of them, because my grave is going to require a monument inscribed on all four sides with rueful mottoes, in small characters, set close together.
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