When I left college I thought - based on a staggeringly inadequate understanding of how the world worked - that I might like to go into book publishing.

Once, when I was little, I asked her if she’d cried when my father had fallen to his death. At the funeral? I mean, the burial? No, I did not. Because you weren’t sad? Because it was nobody’s business if I was.

I stood on the outside of disaster, looking in.

As I listened I thought a featureless baggy man was striking me in slow motion with a well-polished stone.

Written By Don DeLillo

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