Do you think my people would find it oppressive if I just started casually setting deadlines at “close of business Sunday”?
Apologies to Joan Didion, who said, “I don’t know what I think until I write it down.”
And to Flannery O’Connor, who said, “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.”
And to William Faulkner, who said, “I never know what I think about something until I read what I’ve written on it.”
And to E.M. Forster, who said, “How do I know what I think until I see what I say?”
I never know what I think of an idea until I see how it looks in Boots.
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I once knew an old man who, after being confronted with an inexplicably ebullient young store clerk, used to say, “That dame needs some sad pills.”
Last Monday a member of my household was in an obnoxiously better mood than me, and I heard myself grumbling to myself as I went up the stairs, “What crawled up your ass and lived?”