I Have A Feeling That Books Are

If The Literary Category Of 'mordant Fable' Exists At All, It May Be Because Brock Clarke Invented It. The Happiest People In The World Is Everything We Fans Have Come To Love From A Clarke Novel: Playful And Deliriously Skewed, And Somehow Balancing Between Genuinely Great-hearted And Gloriously Weird.

Fiction Is Always A Utopian Task, In That There's An Ideal You Hold In Your Head As You Write Which Inevitably Fails In The Moment Of Creation, In The Insufficiency Of Words To Convey Meaning, Or In The Way The Work Is Completed In The Reader's Head.

Amor Animi Arbitrio Sumitu, Non Ponitur; We Choose To Love; We Do Not Choose To Cease Loving.

She Would Always Feel This Wild Girl Was The Truest Of Any Of The People She Had Already Been: Adored Daughter, Bourgeois Priss, Rebel, Runaway, Dope-fiend San Francisco Hippie; Or All The People She Would Later Be: Mother, Nurse, Religious Fanatic, Prematurely Old Woman. Vivienne Was A Human Onion, And When I Came Home At Twenty Eight Years Old On The Day The Monster Died, I Was Afraid That The Baptist Freak She Had Peeled Down To Was Her True, Acrid, Tear-inducing Core.

I Like People, I Really Do. I Like Meeting People. But Most Of The Time I Would Rather Be At Home Reading A Book Than Reading In A Bookstore. It's A Performance, And It Ends Up Being All Right, And Then You Have A Nice Shot Of Bourbon Afterwards, And It's All Good. I Want To Please People. I Want To Be Nice. I Want To Be Liked. As A Result I Say Yes To Everything. But It Takes A Lot Of Vital Energy Out Of Me.