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Sparrow lives in an inconspicuous double-wide in Phoenicia, New York, and studies French at night while brushing his teeth. One of his books is Small Happiness & Other Epiphanies.
The American system is intended to find the candidate who most wants to be president. The parliamentary system elects the most qualified candidate; the American system elects the most ambitious one.
February 1993I run for president the same way. Every few weeks, I go to St. Mark’s Church (a half block from my house), mimeograph leaflets, and stick some in my attache case. Whenever it comes up in a conversation that I’m running for president, I take one out.
September 1992There is a man I talk to in the Astor Place subway stop. He lives there, and he’s missing a tooth. Today his hair was wound around sticks.
November 1991It was a dare. A dare I gave myself, but still a dare: “I will ride in a mailman’s pouch all day, and write an article about it for The New Yorker.”
September 1991I don’t feel a thrill of nationalism here, like Dad does. He thinks, wow, a country full of Jews. I think, oh no, a country full of Israelis — another language I don’t understand.
February 1991So Jeanne is either with someone and not writing, or writing to Barcelona Poste Restante, as I directed her. I think she has slept with someone by now and probably still is in love with me — that’s my guess. (“I’m lucky with women,” I tell myself.)
January 1991Has something we published moved you? Fired you up? Did we miss the mark? We’d love to hear about it.
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