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Jonathan Franzen

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“Pip frowned. Every so often, she felt the need to strain against the circumstantial straitjacket in which she'd found herself two years earlier, to see if there might be a little new give in its sleeves. And, every time, she found it exactly as tight as before. Still $130,000 in debt, still her mother's sole comfort. It was kind of remarkable how instantly and totally she'd been trapped the minute her four years of college freedom ended; it would have depressed her, had she been able to afford being depressed.”

“E quando l'evento, il grosso cambiamento nella tua vita è semplicemente una presa di coscienza, non è strano? Non c'è assolutamente nulla di diverso, tranne il fatto che vedi le cose in un altro modo e di conseguenza sei meno impaurita e meno ansiosa e nel complesso più forte: non è sorprendente che una cosa completamente invisibile nella tua testa possa sembrarti più vera di qualunque altra cosa tu abbia mai provato prima?”

“He was lovable the way a child is lovable, and he was capable of returning love with a childlike purity. If love is nevertheless excluded from his work, it's because he never quite felt that he deserved to receive it. He was a lifelong prisoner on the island of himself. What looked like gentle contours from a distance were in fact sheer cliffs. Sometimes only a little of him was crazy, sometimes nearly all of him, but, as an adult, he was never entirely not crazy. What he'd seen of his id while trying to escape his island prison by way of drugs and alcohol, only to find himself even more imprisoned by addiction, seems never to have ceased to be corrosive of his belief in his lovability. Even after he got clean, even decades after his late-adolescent suicide attempt, even after his slow and heroic construction of a life for himself, he felt undeserving. And this feeling was intertwined, ultimately to the point of indistinguishability, with the thought of suicide, which was the one sure way out of his imprisonment; surer than addiction, surer than fiction, and surer, finally, than love.”

“Según su experiencia, había pocas cosas más parecidas entre sí que dos revoluciones. Y, sin embargo, él sólo había experimentado las que se llamaban "revolución" a sí mismas a voz en grito. Lo que distinguía a una revolución legítima -la científica, por ejemplo- era que, en vez de ufanarse de su condición revolucionaria, se limitaba a ocurrir. Sólo las débiles y recelosas, las ilegítimas, tenían que ufanarse. El lema de su infancia, bajo un régimen tan débil y receloso que había llegado a construir un muro para encerrar a la misma gente a la que supuestamente había liberado, era que la República contaba con la bendición de situarse a la vanguardia de la historia. Si tu jefe era un capullo y hasta tu marido te espiaba, no era culpa del régimen, porque el régimen estaba al servicio de la Revolución y la Revolución era al mismo tiempo históricamente inevitable y terriblemente frágil, acorralada por sus enemigos. Esa contradicción ridícula era una característica invariable de las revoluciones ufanas. No había delito, ni consecuencia imprevista tan grave que no pudiera justificarse en un sistema que "debía existir", pero "podía fracasar con facilidad.”

“I try to write things that can't be made into movies. My novels have thwarted many attempts to film them and I think that was true of the essay, too. If you'd actually tried to be true to the essay, it would have been, perhaps, boring. So taking that narrow little cast of characters and expanding it out, that was what was exciting about the project for me.”

“Certain kinds of things that the novel used to do, which was, "Oh, I'm living out here in West Nowhere, Nebraska and I'm curious how the upper class in New York City lives, I guess I'll read a novel about it." We don't have to do that now. You just turn on the TV. Turn on Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous. You can get that information anywhere. Novels don't have to do that anymore.”

“Even in an intensely mediated world, in a world that offers at least the illusion of radical self-invention and radical freedom of choice, I as a novelist am drawn to the things you can't get away from. Because much of the promise of radical self-invention, of defining yourself through this marvelous freedom of choice, it's just a lie. It's a lie that we all buy into, because it helps the economy run.”

“Mr. Franzen said he and Mr. Wallace, over years of letters and conversations about the ethical role of the novelist, had come to the joint conclusion that the purpose of writing fiction was “a way out of loneliness.” (NY Times article on the memorial service of David Foster Wallace.)”