For love, he felt as he watched the Puerto Rican boys unloading soda pop for the Gem Spa on his new corner, love was all in life that mattered; without it, there was no point in having lived at all. And so the last Sunday evening of August 1973 (November 2006?) found him sitting on his stoop like a monk who comes finally to the shrine of Santiago de Compostela--devoted not to Christ, in whom he no longer believed, but love.
Dancer From The Dance by Andrew Holleran
Trite sentiment or the only thing that's real? When writing transports you, it's sublime, and never more than when it brings you, suddenly, to you. Malone is ME. And you. All of us? Over the last few days I've cried often when reading this book. And hollered "Yes!" (in my head) at least as many times.
He fell in love with people he did not know how to meet. He began carrying around with him the momentary faces of men seen in restaurants, on streetcorners, in the subways, and fed on their imagined loves as a roach feeds on crumbs. He knew from the looks on faces he surprised by looking up, that he too was being stored in other human hearts.
I get this. Do all y'all? Is it a gay thing or universal? Man, there's something I recognize on every fucking page of this thing.