The semi-autobiographical stuff is not great. It's not bad. I'm just not that interested. But there are beautiful parts in the early stages of the book.
This morning I was assailed by such sadness at the velocity of life - the distance I have travelled from my own youth, the persistence of the old regrets, the new regrets, the ability of failure to refresh itself in novel forms - that I almost crashed the car.
She said how much she'd been hurt, and how badly she wanted to forgive me, but she didn't know whether she could or not - she hoped she could - and I assured her, from the abyss of a broken heart, that I hoped so too, that I hated my infidelities and my lies about the money, and the way I'd kept my boredom secret, and my secrets in general, and Ginny and I talked, after forty years of silence, about the many other ways I'd stolen her right to truth.
