Someday Everything Will Matter: Shit Fancy Writers Say
When I read interviews with fancy, famous writers, I am somewhat bewildered. These writers discuss craft and process and influence in near-spiritual terms as if they exist on an alternate plane where they are perpetually able to articulate profundity. There’s writing and there’s being a writer and the more success you achieve, the more you have to spend your time being a writer—being interviewed, writing op eds and essays, getting your picture taken, coming up with pithy lists of what you are reading or cooking or how you are spending each hour of the day and maybe, just maybe, writing new books. All this business of being a writer must have some purpose. There must be an audience with an insatiable desire for the marginalia and minutiae of famous writers or it might be that this is part of the game—write book, sell book, sell book, sell book.
There is writing and there is being a writer and you can’t have one without the other. Helen Dewitt, author of Lightning Rods, alludes to this in a comment on the Paris Review blog when she notes that, “the industry requires the professional to put writing on hold not just for a day or two, or a week, but for years,” and that after he wrote Freedom, “Franzen then had to do a roadshow to shift copies of the artifact. The fact that his editor saw him as the most important writer of his generation did not mean that his editor thought his time would better be spent (gasp) writing.”
It must be exhausting being a writer, all that blah blah blah. I read interviews with fancy, famous writers and wonder, “Do they ever watch television or are they spending that valuable time thinking up intelligent answers to interview questions?”
Of course, because of an interview, I know fancy writers watch television, or at least, so confesses Umberto Eco who said, “I suspect that there is no serious scholar who doesn’t like to watch television. I’m just the only one who confesses. And then I try to use it as material for my work. But I am not a glutton who swallows everything. I don’t enjoy watching any kind of television. I like the dramatic series and I dislike the trash shows.”
Technically, this confession doesn’t really count because he eschews the trash (or as I like to call it, quality programming) but it’s a small reassurance.
This is the age of sharing. We find something insightful online and tell everyone on our blogs, on Twitter, on Facebook. We say, MUST READ, so as to convey a certain urgency, to let others know, beyond this link lies something necessary. I often see quotations from famous writers being highlighted as MUST READ–tidbits that convey something of great importance about writing or life that are so unbearably articulate I want nothing more than to crawl in bed to watch an episode of Big Rich Texas, a reality show gleefully devoid of substance.
Still, I admire these bits of wisdom. The words seem so sharp and important. At the same time, I have to know—is there some kind of training program where famous writers learn to talk like famous writers? How does one sign up for that program? Preparation is everything.
I also spend a fair amount of time reading the Paris Review interview archive, which is a fine repository of writers being writers. I like to find excerpts I can show my students to say, see, it’s not just me telling you [insert principle of fiction], [insert famous writer’s name] agrees—celebrity endorsement as pedagogy. Look, sometimes it works. The interviews are generally engaging, insightful, and educational but I also marvel, once again, at the level of articulation these writers have developed, this sense of how to respond to questions in ways that carry some gravity.
Take this interview with Julian Barnes where he is asked what literature is for him. Barnes says, “The shortest is that it’s the best way of telling the truth; it’s a process of producing grand, beautiful, well-ordered lies that tell more truth than any assemblage of facts. Beyond that, literature is many things, such as delight in, and play with, language; also, a curiously intimate way of communicating with people whom you will never meet.”
He totally had that sexy answer at the ready. HOW? Does this eloquence come with maturity and experience or does it simply come with being a writer accomplished enough to be interviewed by The Paris Review? A better question might be, why do I devote mental energy to the why of interview answers? (It’s summer, okay?)
Fancy writers seem able to display eloquence not only about literature and writing but also more unwieldy topics like religion. When she was interviewed, Marilynne Robinson spoke about what religion does for her. She said, “Religion is a framing mechanism. It is a language of orientation that presents itself as a series of questions. It talks about the arc of life and the quality of experience in ways that I’ve found fruitful to think about. Religion has been profoundly effective in enlarging human imagination and expression. It’s only very recently that you couldn’t see how the high arts are intimately connected to religion.”
Those deep thoughts were just kicking around, and available in her mental Rolodex. Of course, we don’t know how long she paused before answering the question. We don’t know if she furrowed her brow or stuttered or took her sweet time but still, those words came out of her mouth in the perfect order. Maybe I’m easily amused but that facility with insight intrigues me. It’s like my phone. I touch it and things happen and I don’t understand why but I am still delighted.
These writers are extraordinarily well read. They can speak across genres and time periods and make interesting connections and discuss influence in ways that seem effortless. Samuel Delany recounts how it was War & Peace that showed him, “novels were where it’s at.” Norman Rush’s influences were determined by his father’s library. “As for my earlier influences, they were largely determined by my father’s library. D. H. Lawrence. Actually, a lot of Lawrence. And James Joyce. The Sexual Life of Savages by Bronisław Malinowski—my father was a sort of armchair libertine.” Woody Allen didn’t even read a novel until he was college age. He read comic books instead.
Sometimes we learn things about fancy writers that might be surprising. Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles was inspired, in part by Winesburg, Ohio. Upon reading that book, Bradbury thought, “Someday I’d like to write a book like this, but I’d set it on Mars.” Other times, we learn things about fancy writers that somehow aren’t surprising at all. Jonathan Franzen, for example, had a “good high school experience.”
The recall of fancy writers is uncanny. They are apparently able to recount every moment between conception and literary success in exacting detail. It’s like they know they’re going to need to remember everything because someday, everything will matter. Mark Helprin remembers how he used to look at people’s hands as a child. Margaret Drabble remembers loneliness and being feeble, the books she read, how she followed her sister everywhere. John Ashberry experienced feelings of isolation, too. Richard Wilbur’s first poem was “a horrible little poem about nightingales.” David Mitchell “would indulge in a visual fantasy that involved imagining my name on the jacket of a book—usually Faber and Faber—and I’d feel a whoosh inside my rib cage.”
It’s not that these would be difficult things for anyone to remember, but when I think about most of my childhood, it is an indeterminate blur. I wasn’t really paying attention. I was just being a kid. If I were ever interviewed with the precision of these interviews, I have no idea what I might say about the early years beyond something like, “Well, there was this one time, my brother and I put our baby brother in a laundry basket and shoved him down the basement stairs and for fun, I wrote little stories on napkins.”
It is refreshing to see that fancy writers don’t necessarily remember everything. When asked what she recalled from her first Paris Review interview (ooh la la), Ann Beattie replied, “You know, I really don’t remember much. It happened almost thirty years ago, and in those days I was doing a lot of interviews.”
Writers are still doing a lot of interviews when their books come out—answering questions about process and favorite breakfasts and other such critical things. You start to wonder how writers keep track of it all as they churn through one interview after another. You wonder what they can possibly have left to say when they receive an interview request from PithyBookblogName.blogspot.com. One can only be enamored with oneself for so long. Gravity is finite
In truth, everyone can be interviewed these days—famous writers, obscure writers, good writers, bad writers. This is the future. The business of being a writer has been democratized. Everyone gets to be heard, gets to have a moment where their words hold a certain gravity, even for just a little while, in some small corner of the Internet.
I interview writers with some regularity. It’s harder than it looks. I mean, it’s not really hard but it’s not a mindless task either. You don’t want to look ridiculous or pedantic or sycophantic. You don’t want to ask boring questions that have been asked a hundred times. You want to avoid the kinds of questions that might appear on one of those canned interviews writers put together to be sent out with galleys because those questions have already been answered. You don’t want to ask questions so ostentatiously original that the interview becomes more about the interviewer than the interviewee. Mostly, you want to find a way to encourage the interviewee to say something interesting, to offer readers some unique insight into what it means to be a writer, and what it means to write, and maybe what it means to be alive, here and now.
And still, even when you do your best to ask the best questions, people want to know what writers are reading and what their favorite childhood books are and if they write in the morning on a typewriter or if they write in the woods with a pencil. Did you know that Isak Dinesen’s favorite fruit is the strawberry?
Maybe we want to know that famous writers, they’re just like us—these writers rose from humble beginnings and read the same books we did and had to make time for writing and work and marriage and children and met with failure and also some luck. Maybe it allows us to believe that for us, too, all things are possible.
What strikes me about interviews with famous writers is that we get this moment of recognition, but we also get to see how things have changed in this business of being a writer, and how they have stayed the same. It’s good to know your history. In 1949, Ray Bradbury went to New York to try and sell some short stories. In his interview, he said, “I took my stories around to a dozen publishers. Nobody wanted them. They said, We don’t publish stories. Nobody reads them. Don’t you have a novel?”
This post, although enjoyable, reminds me of a certain trend across the cultural board (and in some of the voices of htmlgiant in particular) in which a certain appreciable amount of self-conscious reticence perpetuates instead a fear of self-aggrandizement that I think – in spite of all it’s radically democratic intentions – is set to unground the reasons some chose creative lives and avenues.
At the risk of seeming an Old Crank, I don’t think it’s a huge problem, nor am I scared of some loss of value (I don’t even think I’m a writer), and I realize how much of this position is due for a discussion about how we ground writers, their work, capital, the margins (up the punks!), and the like but – not everyone is a writer.
But, of course, perhaps I’m unwilling to let go of everything that seems to matter to us.
The written word presents a problem. If you music is good you say great and move on. If the written word is good there is a chance that it is superior. Are you trying to be superior? Don’t gimme none a dat shit!
They told Gilgamesh the same thing when he returned to Uruk.
Two Paris Review interviews I reread over and over are Thomas McGuane’s and John Cheever. When they ask McGuane what he’s currently reading, the son of a bitch rattles off a list of more than a dozen writers. When I first read the interview, I recognized four of the names. I had read works by maybe two. My summer reading is partly based off the authors he lists in that interview.
And the Cheever interview is hysterically flinty. He just lets loose on some questions. For example, when asked if his characters ever “take on identities of their own,” Cheevers says, “The legend that characters run away from their authors—taking up drugs, having sex operations, and becoming president—implies that the writer is a fool with no knowledge or mastery of his craft. This is absurd. Of course, any estimable exercise of the imagination draws upon such a complex richness of memory that it truly enjoys the expansiveness—the surprising turns, the response to light and darkness—of any living thing. But the idea of authors running around helplessly behind their cretinous inventions is contemptible.”
Here are the links:
http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/3667/the-art-of-fiction-no-62-john-cheever
http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/2867/the-art-of-fiction-no-89-thomas-mcguane
This obviously goes for art critics too ….
http://scrawleddownpaperedges.blogspot.co.uk/2012/02/shit-art-critics-say.html
“The recall of fancy writers is uncanny. They are apparently able to recount every moment between conception and literary success in exacting detail.” And the recall of crappy writers is outsourced to their unremarkable archive of posts, updates, tweets.
“He totally had that sexy answer at the ready. HOW?”
All of the Paris Review interviews are cleared with the writer before publication, and the answers go through a lot of editing. (In fact, Cynthia Ozick answered all of her questions with her electric typewriter.) So you’re not necessarily getting prepackaged wit. You’re getting a response that has been polished over the course of time. It works for what The Paris Review wants to accomplish, just as pre-interviews (from which a Q&A script is established for the actual program, with the interviewer reading directly off the script) work for what NPR wants to accomplish. Not everything is as spontaneous as it seems.
smart writers talking are starting to seem to me a lot like a dog trying to walk on two legs.
I’ve always read the polish in fancy interviews as a type of branding famous folks use.
There’s a awful conformity behind this piece. An wilfully feigned ignorance of the rules of the game that north american literary folk seem to indulge perpetually; perplexing their muscles at the mysterious depth of letters. And a degree of showing off the hollow ring of which is meant to lull their inferiors into a false sense of admiration. When US writers put their noses to the literary grindstone why is it I always hear the sound of the life (!) being sucked out of a straw man?
There’s a lot going on in this well-meaning post. The interview format obviously matters a great deal. If the interview is conducted over email and the writer and interviewer have time to polish, the answers probably aren’t prepackaged. The burden of “being a writer” and how it takes away from writing is related but seems like a separate issue. As for “fancifulness,” the writing world is one of the few places left where I feel like I don’t have to apologize for my ambition and love of books (welcome to America, land of the Puritans). Most of us probably spend a considerable amount of time proving to our non-writer friends, consciously and/or subconsciously, how “down-to-earth” and “normal” we are. But I’m not “normal.” Most people can’t do what I do. If that’s arrogant, so be it. I keep it to myself most of the time, but when I enter the realm of other writers, I expect and demand genius, which can be defined in many ways, and ambition. I don’t want to read watered-down interviews that make me feel equal to the writer–I want to read interviews where the writer reminds me of how inadequate I am, because my best work comes from a sense of inadequacy and a desire to measure up to those at the top of the “game.” I read a Robinson interview and immediately want to be more well-read and articulate than her. Please, fancy writers, if you’re reading this, make me feel stupid as often as possible.
Does anyone know how Franzen’s editor keeps a straight face when he says that Franzen is the most important writer of his generation? Does he squeeze on a rusty nail or something? Someone should check his hands.
Written, edited interviews do have a way of sounding polished, don’t they?
I feel this article undermines the fact that some people are indeed extremely intelligent/elloquent.
Also, not everyone likes to watch trashy television. Just because you (meaning the OP or anyone in general) enjoy trash TV from time to time doesn’t mean everyone does…not even in the deepest, darkest section of their subconscious.
I love the edited interviews with the Paris Review but I love listening to audio interviews more. It started with that show Bookworm and has progressed to being a bit of an obsession. I love hearing fancy authors stammer and make thinking noises.
thanks for this.
i’d be interested to know what it is you feel you can do that most can’t. write well? create scenes? play with language? satisfy intellectual/qualitative/practical curiosities? i too feel ‘not “normal”,’ but…i have been writing automatically (immersed in the process OF writing) for so long that i’ve given very little thought to what actually sets me apart, other than that i write thousands of words daily and don’t like to shower.
yes! i agree with you. but even if we did in some deep dark place desire it…well, there are a lot of other things down there in the shadows, but we’re not indulging in those are we?
there is a frustrating sense of ‘everything is permitted’ that i get from people having trash television as one of their not-so-guilty guilty pleasures. ok, all things are permitted. but are you aiming at something? are you trying to move in some particular direction, away from one thing and toward another?
i for one believe deeply in the values instilled in and cultivated by me, even if those values are ultimately contingent. the world would be a better place, i think, if people stopped watching jersey shore (but then also didn’t just fill that time up with another trashy tv show). not that i’d ever force anyone into my perceived ideal lifestyle, since i value freedom of choice…but, it’s weird. do other people feel this way? feel that there are certain things that are valuable, and other things that should be avoided? i don’t avoid drugs because god says no or because they are inherently wrong/evil/sinful. i avoid them because i believe in a way of living that avoids drugs and is more fruitful and fulfilling as a result. the same is true for my avoidance of trash television, or obsessing over sports, or…endless other things that i’ll stop saying now because i feel like this is just me patting myself on the back. but no! i really want to know how you feel.
Apropos the memories of writers: We all are, after all, great big (truth-telling) liars. When I was a kid, I rode a plastic car down a flight of stairs. That’s pretty much all I remember. Were I to be interviewed, though, I’m pretty sure I could “remember” that, when I was a kid, I liked to wonder about how light moved through the spaces in the hands of other people, about why there was even any space in their hands at all, about what they used those hands for.
By “most,” I meant, non-writers, since only a very small % of the population writes (creatively). I wasn’t suggesting that I was born talented, more than that I’ve worked hard for years to develop a unique skill relative to most people (no different than a skilled musician). As for craft, anyone can learn it if he puts in the work (by reading tons and studying forms), and by allowing himself the time to grow. Do you want to be a writer, or a published author? I don’t have the most publishing credits–don’t even have a book–but who cares? That doesn’t define me as a writer. A writer is special because he comes to writing through a love of great books and language, not because he loves the idea of “being a writer” or seeks affirmation or the desire to be loved/liked, which is small potatoes and low stakes compared to the former. Vision is important, too, and the most difficult attribute to quantify, though it’s often developed over time if the writer is already sensitive, self-aware, and totally committed to learning craft and studying the work of past and present writers. So, in no particular chronological order:
1) Sensitivity/self-awareness (obvious)
2) Love of books and language (a wide-range of books, from classics to contemporary–you should be able to discuss Dickens alongside Hempel…do you understand that fiction much accomplish everything with mere words, compared to other art forms that have multiple materials as their disposal? A film has the visuals, facial expressions, music, etc. etc. Fiction has…words. That’s it.)
3) Vision (do you have something to say? something urgent? Or are you just writing a story to write a story?)
4) Time (time is your best friend–too many writers are in a hurry and in “career mode,” especially in today’s world where you know what other writers are doing 24/7–but remember, one great book is always better than ten mediocre books).
If you’re totally committed to cultivating these four things, you’re a writer…and special. Embrace it. Don’t be ashamed.
Yep, the B. R. Meyers fallacy.
“are you trying to move in some particular direction, away from one thing and toward another?”
This is an important question, JTC. I’m all for no-brow production and learning, undermining prescribed values, but just as well reminding (as your question does) why we do, that is, to ask what is at stake.
Complacency and fear of superiority is not liberation and learning, not all pedagogy is pedantry, not every teacher a tyrant.
I’m not exactly sure what the thesis of your reply is.
But all I’m saying is I don’t like semi-presumptuous statements claiming it’s natural to want to veg out and watch bad TV and everyone wants to do that at times.
I do think for some people this is natural, and others will veg out in a variety of ways (ie. video games etc.), but there is a spectrum of how much people veg out and some people simply don’t do it as much. Some people don’t watch TV at all, nor have any desire to. And some people are pithy/clever and can come up with witty or inspiring answers to interview questions. I don’t think these writers are necessarily trying to sound that way in their interviews, I just think some of them are indeed interesting or exceptional people.
^^^
Not sure what that means.
I think he’s some curmudgeonly, uptight reviewer for the Atlantic, but I didn’t read your comment in that vein at all. You’re responding to the notion that a writer who “sounds smart” or “fancy” in an interview is somehow faking it or showing off. It is presumptuous to assume that these writers aren’t being themselves. Frankly, I trust these writers more than the “hip” ones who are “too cool for school.”
http://aligunduz.org/blog/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/grampa_simpson_cloud-300×225.jpg
“We real cool”–HTMLGiant 20-something male set.
I don’t get it. you think it would be wrong for a person to accuse someone who writes extremely polished interview answers of faking it or showing off, but have no problem doing nearly the same thing—writing off people who don’t want to do that as being deliberately aloof for the sake of appearances.
the second half of your comment is just a “kids these days”-style rant, and maybe the millionth time someone has tried to use that faulkner thing. it doesn’t matter whether he would get published today or not, and also I’m pretty sure he would.
In case you missed it, you’re the one who started the “kids these days/get off my lawn” thing, not me. I simply responded because that’s what I do when people insult me. I’m not “old,” either.
And I don’t think it’s wrong or contradictory when we’re talking about writers who go out of their way not to sound like writers in interviews about writing, which is different than a writer at least trying to discuss writing in an interview, since people presumably go to those interviews to hear writers discuss writing, not a bunch of false modesty or hipster posturing.
it was in no way opposed to what you said. it was more of a ramble than anything else though, too, so don’t worry either way.
agreed, again. i was just taking the issue of trashy television further, since a lot of people seem unaware of the fact (or unwilling to accept, or maybe they just plain don’t agree) that trashy tv is or could be bad for us!
you know they used to consider novels as trivial and brain-rotting as we do TV today?
i don’t get why asceticism is supposed to be indicative of anything other than having insane levels of impulse control (and the anal-retentive crotchetyness that comes along with that). it’s like the body-building fanatics at the gym, putting in all that effort only so they can say hey look i put all that effort in, aren’t i better than you?
also i’ve found that the people who look down on even occasional use of drugs/alcohol are usually just terrified of feeling out of control for even a second and the whole moral superiority thing is just a cover.
unclench…
re: the sense of place, that’s because we no longer need to read novels as travelogues, there are so many better sources of that kind of information that if place isn’t important to a book why shoehorn it in
so much “get off my porch”ing in the comments today
“cinematic quality that mimics TV” – you mean writing that “paints a picture,” the gold-standard cliche for “good writing”? what’s wrong with that? oh you’re not actually talking about cinematic/televisual quality, you’re just upset there are pop culture references in fiction, as if no writers in the past ever referenced contemporary events, products, people, etc.
i mean everything dante wrote, for example, is obviously completely understandable with no footnotes or outside knowledge or cultural context, totally universal, all those italian politicians and so forth. and faulkner never ever mentioned a type of farm equipment or southern food product that’s not universally understood. right. ok.
jesus
god me too, bookworm, other people podcast with sexy brad listi, bat segundo when he shuts up about the bat segundo character and just interviews, and queen of all interviewers TERRY FUCKING GROSS
ahhh love author interviews so much
This blog is dominated on a daily basis by the inverse sort of comments, so you can just deal with the “get off my porch’ing” for once (if that’s what you want to call it). Instead of getting all whiney that someone might be offering a different perspective than what you’re used to here and throwing a temper tantrum, you should embrace being challenged for once and not solely visiting this site as a place where you’ll fit in easily.
You do raise a good point about fiction not having to serve as a “travelogue” today. This is obvious in the development of fiction since the Victorian era. But you oversimplify the concept of place by assuming that “place”=filler. It certainly is more than that. A writer can imbue place in a few sentences–the length doesn’t matter, more than the language/word choice/texture.
Some of us actually grew up in rural areas, where place/environment is still very important. Some of us grew up in tight-knight urban communities where place/environment is still very important. And, even if you’re writing about a strip mall filled with chain stores, the strip mall should feel–to the reader–like the only one of its kind, one that could only exist in that particular parking lot.
As for my comments about “cinematic” fiction, I’m talking about the trend–esp. in short fiction–of writing stories that are mostly action and straight-forward dialogue (dialogue that’s plain and simple, rather than quirky or weird), and driven by characters who don’t have last names and could be from any city in the United States. “Cinematic” probably wasn’t the best word, because you’re right that it doesn’t have to be pejorative…I simply used it to connect to my thoughts on the potential influence of TV. And you see this influence especially in young writers who are still developing–often, they will write entire stories that read like scripts.
Regarding the observational habits of writers, specifically in childhood… I think what you’re not taking into account is that by saying “when I think about most of my childhood, it is an indeterminate blur. I wasn’t really paying attention. I was just being a kid…” you’re essentially doing the same thing that these writers are doing. You can say “I paid attention to hands a lot when I was kid” but all it really is is an observation occurring after the fact. Realizing, now, your *lack* of attention is exactly the same thing. You’re reflecting in the same way. No need to separate yourself from this type of observation.
I agree with you that not everyone likes “trashy” stuff or bad art. There is this this longstanding idea that people who like “high art” or complex films or dense novels are all just liars who actually dislike it and secretly would have more fun watching rom-coms, reality TV and mass market thrillers.
B. R. Meyers is a dumb, but bizarrely famous, critic who used to take that line of thinking. For example, I remember him having a snide comment about a Cormac McCarthy fan club along the lines of “fine, let them bore themselves.” Could accept the idea that maybe people who read him… don’t get bored, but actually enjoy the work.
I agree with you that not everyone likes “trashy” stuff or bad art. There is this this longstanding idea that people who like “high art” or complex films or dense novels are all just liars who actually dislike it and secretly would have more fun watching rom-coms, reality TV and mass market thrillers.
B. R. Meyers is a dumb, but bizarrely famous, critic who used to take that line of thinking. For example, I remember him having a snide comment about a Cormac McCarthy fan club along the lines of “fine, let them bore themselves.” Could accept the idea that maybe people who read him… don’t get bored, but actually enjoy the work.
i don’t have a problem with television as a medium. i have a problem with the ‘vast wasteland’ that television’s content has embraced. the same goes for any medium of expression.
‘asceticism’ for me takes two forms: private, which is my avoidance of certain behaviors that i feel will conflict with certain goals. like, i ‘abstain’ from playing halo, or owning an xbox 360, because i could not write as much as i do if i had one. the second form is public; in reaction to the selfishness engendered by american society (and our basic nature, maybe?) i try to think of others and…
family’s here will finish this later
^^^
Okay that was my point exactly. And regarding myself (not that anyone asked), I do like trashy stuff sometimes (I’m reading 50 Shades of Grey right now) but I definitely don’t like TV.
So the point is: not everyone likes TV.
And maybe most people do need to veg out in some way/shape/form, but I suspect this is to varying degrees and I would even say there is a contingent of people out there who indulge in this type of behavior seldom to never.
[…] Speaking of interviews, here’s Roxane Gay wondering how fancy, famous writers answer interview questions like they do. She also wonders if they ever indulge in silly TV […]
[…] Selected Readings by Roxane Gay: http://therumpus.net/2012/04/what-we-hunger-for/ http://therumpus.net/2012/06/where-things-stand/ http://therumpus.net/2012/08/we-are-many-we-are-everywhere/ http://www.salon.com/2012/08/06/the_internet_is_too_nice/ http://roxanegay.tumblr.com/ http://htmlgiant.com/web-hype/someday-everything-will-matter-shit-fancy-writers-say/#more-91223 […]