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By policing his characters, he had failed a writer’s first obligation to himself: to practice brave storytelling.
He tended to enjoy the company of a certain kind of snarky but cheerful gay man.
Jane’s father once told her that white people believed, deep in their hearts, that Black people would all choose to become white if they could. But Black people didn’t want to be white, he had told her. They only wanted to have what white people had. He had said race was always about money, and money was always about race.
hate that childless lefty Sundance shit.”
She wanted to tell him that the novelist he’d lived with for ten years was a fiction herself.

