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These might be the only three pictures I have of my old apartment.

It was actually really beautiful inside- there was a marble staircase with huge ceilings and a chandelier in the entryway, and the manager’s office was covered with Persian rugs. The elevator (which caused the fire) was really old style, with black gates.

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This was my bedroom.

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…the dining room

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…and abnormally messy while my friend juggled lemons and knives.

Although, the entire apartment was tilted. And you could hide in the wall behind the murphy beds!! Never got to scare my roommate like I planned :(

“Though Mr. Nostalgia loved the things he sold, he had no illusion that they held any intrinsic value. They were worth only what you would pay for them; what small piece of everything you had ever lost that, you might come to believe, they would restore to you. Their value was indexed only to the sense of personal completeness, perfection of the soul, that would flood you when, at last, you filled the last gap on your checklist.”

—Michael Chabon, Telegraph Avenue

“Fathering imposed an obligation that was more than your money, your body or your time, a presence neither physical or measurable by clocks: open-ended, eternal, and invisible, like the commitment of gravity to the stars.”

—Michael Chabon. Telegraph Avenue.

“Peel away Michael Chabon’s luminous prose, and his new novel Telegraph Avenue would be a pretty lackluster book.”

—Golden Oldie: Michael Chabon’s Telegraph Avenue by Michael Bourne
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