“I wish,” I start again, “I wish that at some point you could try to do a week of office work. The whole thing: one-hour commute in the morning, one-hour commute in the evening. And then after you got home you’d have to indulge your love of books not by walking to McNally and hearing some imperialist novelist like James Murphy talk shit, but by sitting at home until four, reading and reviewing a book for free, for Alias or Nazione Indiana, totally out of love, just because you care. Only love keeps you up until four. I only wish I could see you do that.”