...runoff from the other place.
See, if I do my job right when I’m writing, I will really get you turned back on yourself, and on your own code of ethics or morality or vision of the world or sense of self or whatever. If I get you turned back on yourself, then I done my job. I’ve done what I set out to do.
In his fiction and in his life, Crews empathized most with the people who needed it most: the freaks, the f*ck-ups, people who’d been broken by loss of one kind or another.
Listening to them talk, I wondered what would give credibility to my own story, if, when my young son grows to manhood, he has to go looking for me in the mouths and memories of other people,” he wrote. “Who would tell the stories? A few motorcycle riders, bartenders, editors, half-mad karateka, drunks, and writers. “Even though I was gladdened listening to the stories of my daddy, an almost nauseous sadness settled in me, knowing I would leave no such life intact. Among the men with whom I spent my working life, university professors, there is not one friend of the sort I was listening to speak of my daddy there that day in the back of the store in Bacon County.