In the spring of 2001, I was a junior at Emerson College and working at Brookline Booksmith, the landmark indie bookstore on Harvard St. I had terrible two-toned, bleached blond/black hair. I smoked Camel Lites. I was depressed— not clinically, but existentially. The previous summer, one of my close childhood friends died very suddenly and the world cracked open. I spent the winter plagued by recurring nightmares about her, waking in a cold sweat. The nightmares gave way to insomnia, and before I knew it, I was spending hours staring at the ceiling of my bedroom in my shitty Allston apartment, wondering… what? Why? The thread of meaning that had woven my world into a bright tapestry had unraveled and the edges were frayed: objects and people seemed to vibrate, as if threatening to come apart. This had old roots— as a child in church, listening to the Nicene Creed, I would panic at the line,
Farewell to Janet Malcolm
Farewell to Janet Malcolm
Farewell to Janet Malcolm
In the spring of 2001, I was a junior at Emerson College and working at Brookline Booksmith, the landmark indie bookstore on Harvard St. I had terrible two-toned, bleached blond/black hair. I smoked Camel Lites. I was depressed— not clinically, but existentially. The previous summer, one of my close childhood friends died very suddenly and the world cracked open. I spent the winter plagued by recurring nightmares about her, waking in a cold sweat. The nightmares gave way to insomnia, and before I knew it, I was spending hours staring at the ceiling of my bedroom in my shitty Allston apartment, wondering… what? Why? The thread of meaning that had woven my world into a bright tapestry had unraveled and the edges were frayed: objects and people seemed to vibrate, as if threatening to come apart. This had old roots— as a child in church, listening to the Nicene Creed, I would panic at the line,