Part of the joy of reading ‘I Might Regret This’ is the scramble to follow along.
An ending should be embraced, not shied away from.
Havrilesky’s project is simple in theory, but fascinatingly nuanced in practice: to diagnose our shared cultural values, anxieties, obsessions and illusions in order to better understand the way they influence our individual emotional landscapes.
Place devours cultural schisms, splintering them wide open for the world’s eye to behold.
Titles don’t only draw us into the work. They also fix our attention upon fewer words, and thereby propel us to consider the convention that builds the work up and makes it beautiful: its language.
Moriarty is able to make seemingly small interactions and commonplace moments entertaining and riveting, as if they are not commonplace, but crucial.
Laymon finds a stray thread, and has summoned the courage to begin unraveling.
The whole book feels like a weak gesture at some undefined avant-garde ideal.
Books become extensions of ourselves that preserve culture, history, science and all other bits and pieces of human thought rendered into ink-inscribed words on paper.
I loved Taylor Swift more than anything because she made writing fun.