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	<title>DrewVogel.COM &#187; nick-hornby</title>
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		<title>Nick Hornby</title>
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		<pubDate>Sun, 27 Jul 2003 00:56:43 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Drew</dc:creator>
		
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		<description><![CDATA[<div class=""><p><img height="227" src="/images/nickpic.gif" width="150" /></p>
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<font size="+2">N</font>ick Hornby is the author of two books, <em>High Fidelity</em>, and <em>Fever Pitch</em>. For more information about Nick, please check <a href="http://www.nickhornby.com">this site</a>. </p>
<p>Here are some quotes from <em>High Fidelity</em>:</p>
<ul type="disc">
<li>&#8230;<strong>a</strong>nd my friends don&#8217;t seem to be friends at all but people whose phone numbers I haven&#8217;t lost. </li>
<li>&#8230;<strong>I</strong> have a terrible, chilling, bone-shaking experience: the most pathetic man in the world gives me a smile of recognition. The Most Pathetic Man In The World has huge horn-rimmed spectacles and buckteeth; he&#8217;s wearing a dirty fawn anorak and brown cord trousers which have been rubbed smooth at the knee; he, too, is being taken to see <em>Howard&#8217;s End</em> by his parents, despite the fact that he&#8217;s in his late twenties. And he gives me this terrible little smile <em>because he has spotted a kindred spirit.</em><br />
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<li>&#8220;<strong>H</strong>ave you slept with him yet?&#8221; and it&#8217;s all over.<br />
&#8220;Is that why you wanted to see me?&#8221;<br />
&#8220;I guess.&#8221;<br />
&#8220;Oh, Rob.&#8221;<br />
I just want to ask the question again, straightaway; I want an answer, I don&#8217;t want &#8220;Oh, Rob,&#8221; and a pitying stare.<br />
&#8220;What do you want me to say?&#8221;<br />
&#8220;I want you to say that you haven&#8217;t, and for your answer to be the truth.&#8221;<br />
&#8220;I can&#8217;t do that.&#8221; She can&#8217;t look at me when she&#8217;s saying it, either.</li>
<li><strong>I</strong>t must be hard for parents, I guess, when they see that things aren&#8217;t working out for their children, but that their children can no longer be reached by the old parental routes, because those roads are now much too long.</li>
<li><strong>W</strong>hen I nestled into Laura&#8217;s back in the night, I was afraid because I didn&#8217;t want to lose her, and we always lose someone, or they lose us, in the end. I&#8217;d rather not take the risk. I&#8217;d rather not come home from work one day in ten or twenty years&#8217; time to be faced with a pale, frightened woman saying that she&#8217;d been shitting blood &#8212; <em>I&#8217;m sorry, I&#8217;m sorry, but this is what happens to people</em> &#8212; and then we go to the doctor and then the doctor says it&#8217;s inoperable and then . . . . I wouldn&#8217;t have the guts, you know? I&#8217;d probably just take off, live in a different city under an assumed name, and Laura would check in to the hospital to die and they&#8217;d say, &#8220;Isn&#8217;t your partner coming to visit?&#8221; and she&#8217;d say, &#8220;No, when he found out about the cancer he left me.&#8221; Great guy! &#8220;Cancer? Sorry, that&#8217;s not for me! I don&#8217;t like it!&#8221; Best not to put yourself in that position. Best leave it all alone. </li>
<li><strong>I</strong>&#8216;ve been thinking with my guts since I was fourteen years old, and frankly speaking, between you and me, I have come to the conclusion that my guts have shit for brains.</li>
<p> </ul>
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