Chinese take-out

I am kind of a creeper. A creeper does creeperly things like stare at old persons in lecture halls and muse about the lives of famous writers living in Brooklyn. Think of the Park-Slope-dwelling Nicole Krauss and Jonathan Safran Foer. They've got the looks and the talent. Much more impressive than any Hollywood power couple, I say. What a lovely, literate child their son must be.

I gathered that The History of Love would be good because I loved JSF's novel, also published in 2005. I based this idea entirely upon the faith that JSF wouldn't have married an idiot, and I don't think I'm wrong. Here's a little snippet of the beginning of what looks to be a promising story:

I often wonder who will be the last person to see me alive. If I had to bet, I'd bet on the delivery boy from the Chinese take-out. I order in four nights out of seven. Whenever he comes I make a big production of finding my wallet. He stands in the door holding the greasy bag while I wonder if this is the night I'll finish off my spring roll, climb into bed, and have a heart attack in my sleep.

--Nicole Krauss, The History of Love.

I like Chinese take-out as much as the next person, but at the same time, it has the potential to be depressing because it means you couldn't muster up enough energy to go out and get it yourself, depressing because it's cooked by some stranger who doesn't even know you, depressing because you can still remember a time when you had delicious versions of the same dishes made by people who loved you.


P.S. according to Wikipedia, (who knows how accurate it is?), JSF is friends with Dave Eggers and they sometimes work together. I hope it's true because that would mean that birds of a feather stick together...and writers of good books edit together.
P.P.S. The above isn't Chinese take-out. I made it myself!