"But you can adopt," she suggests. "You can babysit."
[...]
"We can't adopt," Dewey says. "We're poor. They'd never give us a baby."
[...] He hopes, right now, that I am pregnant. He says I'm probably a month gone, he can tell by the flab around my belly button. I think maybe it's just flab, from eating donuts and lying around all day. But we're making money. We can book appointments.
[...] a writer twenty years older who e-mailed daily love notes like exquisite novels in miniature but in the end said he was too old for her he had divorce kids he had moss growing on his antlers it would never work he was too old.
[...] When a solipsist dies, after all, everything goes with him. [...]
[...] It’s not that students don’t “get” Kafka’s humor but that we’ve taught them to see humor as something you get — the same way we’ve taught them that a self is something you just have. No wonder they cannot appreciate the really central Kafka joke: that the horrific struggle to establish a …
