there’s something so heartbreaking about the fact that young daniel tells armand he’s “just a shitty little kid from modesto.” just a shitty little kid. not a writer. not an adult. not a human being with interests and a complex personality. no—he’s shitty. such a crass word, so pathetically self-effacing it makes him seem younger than he is. as though he’s so insignificant, so unremarkable—like a face in the background of a photograph, like a stain on the carpet. a shitty little kid who probably says things like makin’ it and doin’ time and it’s such a bummer, man and what a drag and what’s your hurry babe, what’s your poison? and i can be anyone you want, boss. I could be on my knees in a second. he’s just a shitty little kid with nothing real to say. nothing special. certainly not anyone to waste time on. not for someone like armand. not fascinating. not anything. and armand sees past it, through the facade, (reluctantly but still) right to the very core of him. not a shitty little kid—a fascinating boy.
