““Do you know what I mean, Michael?" I am remembering his name, even that. I am under control, by God, I am the captain of my fucking fate, I am the master of whatchamacallit. I say, “I don't mean interested, you know? I mean . . . interested! You know?" “I think I do," he says, gazing at me over his knees and his notebook and his pencil and his nothing nose. “I mean," I explain further, “you’re interested in me, right?" “Yes, I am," he says. “Your... readers are interested in me," I say. “People going to the movies are interested in me. Everybody’s interested in me. But not like Lorraine. She really dug down in there. She really wanted to know me. But thank God she didn't care about the details, you see what I mean?" He frowns. “No," he says simply. “Lorraine wasn't interested in my biography,” I tell Michael O'Connor. “She was interested in my meaning.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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