i think maybe we're missing the point. it seems to me james' strength as a writer is that he doesn't take us by the hand. he treats us like adults. he respects us enough to forget us. that takes . . . courage .
i think so. . what about you?
just checking.
grady.
hey, you two.
ail right. by the way, his friend?
james'll know about george sanders.
mr. crabtree was saying how george sanders killed himself, only he couldn't remember how.
oh, james is amazing. he knows all the movie suicides. go ahead, james. tell them who else.
just a few then. the big ones.
i haven't heard of half of those.
come on. teach. i want you to dance with me.
i've been re-reading arsonist's daughter. it's so beautiful, grady. so natural. it's like ail your sentences always existed, just waiting around in style heaven, or wherever, for you to fetch them down.
and i love the inscription you wrote to me. only i'm not quite the downy innocent you think i am.
so what are you going to do?
i just mean, i--i guess emily isn't going to be there when you get home.
shush.
i would if i knew where i was taking him.
some apartment somewhere. but i've never seen it.
james is odd. i know he has an aunt in sewickley heights. i dropped him there once, but.  come to think of it, it-wasn't even his aunt's house. he said she worked there. or something. i don't remember.
his bag. you know that ratty green thing he's always carrying around. he must've left it inside.
the one in your office? it's the best one .for naps.
hey. if you want to talk later. i'll be up.
there you are.
i thought we were going to talk. last night.
it's okay. . i'm here when you want me.
grady!
i know i shouldn't have, but there it was, just sort of lying out, and i couldn't resist and-and--i suck.
i don't know--maybe- i don't think so.
he shot the chancellor's dog, didn't he? the blind one.
at first the police thought he just ran away, but this afternoon dr. gaskell found some blood spots on the carpet -
crabtree said it sounded like something james would be messed up in.
who does?
i told you, sewickly heights.
i don't know, grady. i just dropped him on a corner.
no! don't go. i've been waiting ail night for you.
two-sixty-two baxter drive.
stop it.
grady. hi. what's up?
it beats 'what's your major?'
sure. the keys are on the dresser next to. . to your book.
i uh, i didn't finish, i . fell asleep.
no, it's not that, it's.
it's just that, you know, i was thinking about how, in class, you're always telling us '-that writers make choices--at least the good ones. and, don't get me wrong. i'm not saying the book isn't really great-i mean, really great- but at times it's, well, very detailed, you know, with the genealogies of everyone's horses and ail the dental records and so on-and i don't know, maybe i'm wrong, but it sort of reads, in places, like, well, actually, like.  . you didn't make any choices at all. and i was wondering if it might not be different if, maybe, when you wrote, you weren't always . under the influence.