The world had badly damaged him, or he had damaged himself, or he had damaged the world, or something.

He couldn’t take great prose. The thought of someone having written it was too exhausting.

He drove past the old house on the way to the liquor store. The familiar bay window above the porch, where she used to sit waiting when he came home. Halfway down the block he had to pull over. He couldn’t go forward, and he couldn’t go back.

Book II:
After the booze ran out.

Popular culture has been slowly preparing us for an unbearable future.

Thank you for seeing me. I really think I’m un—
raveling.
Unrav—
Unraveling.
Wait—are you actually making fun of my voice?
Your choice of words. A bit maudlin and clichéd.
All words are clichés—that’s why they’re words, for fuck sake. I can’t believe I’m paying you 250 an hour—
And there it is—I wondered how long til you brought it up.

Their rigorously maintained veneer of civility lasted 90 seconds into his birthday toast.

Distributorship killed the authorship star.

Looking for the few right words that will fix everything.
Maybe next time.

The promise of the future has receded into the distant past.

When does “verge of collapse” become actual collapse?

My old friend appeared at the door. He had always been, if not vain, fastidious in his presentation. Now he was only partly shaven, with his shirt worn inside out. “Rand,” he whispered, “Thank God.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so exhausted. He dragged his fingers through his long greying hair and waved me in. The apartment was nearly bare, with a recliner parked in its center—the site of his long, lonely vigil.

Drawing: a record of its own making.

In his bewilderment he slept on her side of the bed, with a gun under the pillow.

Surrounded by chaos and devastation, he felt at ease. His inner and outer worlds had reached equilibrium