Whatever it is, David Carr is one. A blowsoft, let’s call him. He blows softly, but the words that he blows cut like a knife. His recent tour de force NY Times Magazine cover story, “Me and My Girls”, exemplifies the kind of writing that truly affects me. It’s all about economy of language. It’s all about cramming a shit-ton of meaning into every sentence, every beat. Writing like this inspires me, gives me goose bumps, and makes me proud that I somehow managed to stumble upon it:
The chronicity of addiction is really a kind of fatalism writ large. If an addict knows in his heart he is going to use someday, why not today? But if a thin reed of hope appears, the possibility that it will not always be so, things change. You live another day and then get up and do it again. Hope is oxygen to someone who is suffocating on despair.
Friends, this is as close as prose can get to poetry without slipping into verse. Read it.
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