And in the end we’re all just humans… drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness.
Once I cheated on her. I was drunk in Pittsburgh. They bragged on me for being a fly in the South. This girl and I were left together in a fancy apartment of the Oakland section. The girl did everything. I was homesick during the whole time for Jane. When you get down to it, there isn’t much to do. It’s just arms and legs. It’s not worth a damn.
- NY Mag: What do you hate most about living in New York?
- Bobby Cannavale: On a sidewalk, when people walk on the left. I go crazy every day. I say things to people. There's a flow! There's lanes — and if one guy throws it off, like he's on his phone and he's in the wrong lane, it backs up everything. And if you're going to go up the stairs on the left on the subway, go two at a time, so you can keep the lane clear. I don't like people who don't know how to walk in the city.
It’s no longer the love of our twenties for you, either. When I was twenty I was in love with love at the same time I was in love with you. I have lost the whole of that glowing, enthusiastic side of myself: that is what has changed.
- NYFA: With two novels and three children’s books under your belt, do you have any advice for writers just starting out?
- JENNY OFFILL: Don’t take advice from people who prize security above all else. Surround yourself with smart, funny, ridiculously broke friends and learn to tolerate uncertainty together. Cook each other dinner, loan each other rent, and banish all talk about how old you are getting, and how young everyone else is.
She remembers the first night she knew that she loved him, the way the fear came rushing in. She laid her head on his chest and listened to his heart. One day this too will stop, she thought. The no, no, no of it.
That one was so beautiful I used to watch him sleep. If I had to sum up what he did to me, I’d say it was this: he made me sing along to all the bad songs on the radio. Both when he loved me and when he didn’t.
There is still such crookedness in my heart. I had thought loving two people would straighten it.
I realized later that it was perfectly safe to say anything then, since nothing was possible.
Existence is this, I thought, a start of joy, a stab of pain, an intense pleasure, veins that pulse under the skin, there is no other truth to tell.
It was really true, there was no longer anything about him that could interest me. He wasn’t even a fragment of the past, he was only a stain, like the print of a hand left years ago on a wall.