May 18, 2012 Elisabeth Donnelly He cuts a transfixing figure for even an ordinary reader’s curiosity: the book-jacket photographs with their silvery-bronze patina suggesting a pale-eyed cattle rustler, his laser-blue gaze smudged simultaneously with apprehension and derring-do, a tin-woodman tint evoking a man of metal and mettle, in sorrowful quest of his forgotten heart. — Lorrie Moore on the fact that Richard Ford is a stone-cold fox in The New Yorker. Read this sentence aloud, it’s masterful. For anyone who’s ever done an interview, Chapter Seven-ish of The Sportswriter, by Ford, is a hilarious and uncanny satire of the parry and back and forth between a writer and subject, hyper-aware of what each person wants from the interaction. Fabulous. Coincidentally, I read Walker Percy’s The Moviegoer and The Sportswriter at the same time, and made a lot of changes in my life months later, in an effort to cure myself of dreaminess.