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The Monday Morning Memo


“My mother and I

f
ought like cat and dog. One day she screamed at me. ‘You’re not my son. You’re trash picked up in the gutter.’ I told her I knew I was adopted. That made her angrier. ‘Who told you?’ No one, I said. I just knew.” 

– Errol Uys,
talking to his friend Jim (James Michener) in 1979.
Michener, too, was adopted.
 

“Jim told me about a member of the Michener clan, who started sending him letters after he began to win recognition. Jim wasn’t a real Michener, the anonymous writer said, but a bastard and a disgrace unfit to bear the name. Year after year, the letters kept coming, their poison more and more vitriolic. Every advance Jim made, there’d be a missive filled with rage and vituperation.”


“‘I’ve not the slightest idea who he is.’ Jim had a notion that the writer was a man. Where were the letters from? I asked. Philadelphia, but that meant little to Jim. One thing that his detractor wrote rang true for him: ‘Just who the hell do you think you are, trying to be better than you are?'”


“‘He got that right,’ Jim said. ‘I’ve always tried to be better than I was.’”

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Random Quote:

“We spoke for hours, late into the night. Neither of us mentioned our pasts. I sensed that there were things she would rather not talk about, and by the way she avoided questioning me, I think she guessed the same. We spoke of ourselves instead, of fond imaginings and impossible things. I pointed to the skies and told her the names of stars and constellations. She told me stories about them I had never heard before.

My eyes were always returning to Denna. She sat beside me, arms hugging her knees. Her skin was more luminous than the moon, her eyes wider than the sky, deeper than the water, darker than the night.

It slowly began to dawn on me that I had been staring at her wordlessly for an impossible amount of time. Lost in my thoughts, lost in the sight of her. But her face didn’t look offended or amused. It almost looked as if she were studying the lines of my face, almost as if she were waiting.”

- Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind, p. 216

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