The Art of Fielding: A Novel

by Chad Harbach

All his life Schwartz had yearned to possess some single transcendent talent, some unique brilliance that the world would consent to call genius.

since then, scarcely a week has gone by when I do not feel myself unfolding

within myself.

he thought twice before ordering a steak or a second scotch, though especially in the case of the scotch, thinking twice and declining were different things.

All day long, no matter how hard he worked, no matter what he accomplished, a voice in his head berated him for his laziness, his sloth, his inability to concentrate.

the clash of imperfect ideas was the only way for anyone, including himself, to learn and improve.

It seemed to indicate, if not love, at least the possibility of such a thing.

So much of one’s life was spent reading; it made sense not to do it alone.

but you

always lived in your head and you had to go with what you felt.

You loved it because you considered it an art: an apparently pointless affair, undertaken by people with a special aptitude,

A copy of the new Murakami novel,

I know what I'm reading next.

But he’d thought of a plan, something to try, and he’d been bold enough to try it.

And what they loved even more was to forgive each other.