At Some Point You Have To Accept Your Life’s Work Has Been For Naught
Or not.
I don’t think my book, I Love You, We Said, sold more than 20 to 30 copies. It’s a fucking travesty.
I’m not especially modest about it. Why would I be? It’s good, as good as it can be. As good as anything comparable out there — or near enough; I’m not entirely crazy. Walter Rhein compares it to Rubber Soul (which kills) hinting at the coming of Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (overrated).
He also compares its “thundering mechanism” of “blurting out beauty in a mad rush” to Dostoevsky’s Notes From the Underground. Absolutely, and I’ll take it, thank you terribly — despite the ‘hastily’ framed description of it as “a nice little love memoir”. Goddamn, son...)
Further to why I’m so pissed, an extraordinarily high percentage of people who’ve read it agree with me, vocally so (more below). Including people you wouldn’t think relate, people who don’t read, people with vaginas and other (representative) minorities, people who are upset with me for saying things they might have liked to say first, in a way they might have liked to. That’s because it’s both a highly personal memoir and about everything and for anyone who’s ever been excluded, gaslighted, under-estimated and a bit mad (everyone).
