Sim, faz algum tempo que ela saiu, mas só vi agora, então compartilharei agora :)
Dois caras fodas juntos, só um escritor fodão pra poder entrevistar um outro que é >>> do que vidas.
Leiam e inspirem-se!!
Foi retirado do UK Sunday Times e do Discordia 19 - está em inglês e não tô afim de traduzir, mas a leitura é fácil e bem proveitosa!
Se alguém tiver alguma dúvida é só deixar um coments.
The first time I met Stephen King was in Boston, in 1992. I sat in his hotel suite, met his wife, Tabitha, who is Tabby in conversation, and his then-teenage sons, Joe and Owen, and we talked about writing and about authors, about fans and about fame.
“If I had my life over again,” said King. “I’d have done everything the same. Even the bad bits. But I wouldn’t have done the American Express ‘Do You Know Me?’ TV ad. After that, everyone in America knew what I looked like.” He was tall and dark-haired, and Joe and Owen looked like younger clones of their father.
The next time I met Stephen King, in 2002, he pulled me up on stage to play kazoo with the Rock Bottom Remainders, a ramshackle assemblage of authors who can play instruments and sing and, in the case of author Amy Tan, impersonate a dominatrix while singing Nancy Sinatra’s These Boots are Made For Walkin’. Afterwards we talked in the tiny toilet in the back of the theatre, the only place King could smoke a furtive cigarette. He seemed frail, then, and grey, only recently recovered from a long stay in hospital after being hit by an idiot in a van, and the hospital infections that had followed it. He grumbled about the pain of walking downstairs. I worried about him, then.
And now, another decade, and when King comes out of the parking bay in the Sarasota Key to greet me, he’s looking good. He’s no longer frail. He is 64 and he looks younger than he did a decade ago.
Stephen King’s house in Bangor, Maine is gothic and glorious. I know this although I have never been there. I have seen photographs on the internet. It looks like the sort of place that somebody like Stephen King ought to live and work. There are wrought iron bats and gargoyles on the gates.
Stephen King’s house near Sarasota, Florida, on the other hand, on a strand of land on the edge of the sea lined with big houses, is ugly. And not endearingly ugly. It’s a long block of concrete and glass, like an enormous shoebox, It was built, explains Tabby, by a man who built shopping malls, out of the materials of a shopping mall. It’s like an Apple store’s idea of a McMansion, and not pretty. But once you are inside the glass window-walls have a perfect view over the sand and the sea, and there’s a gargantuan blue metal doorway that dissolves into nothingness and stars in one corner of the garden, and inside there are paintings and sculptures, and, most important, there’s King’s office. It has two desks in it. A nice desk, with a view, and an unimpressive desk with a computer on it, with a battered, much sat-upon chair facing away from the window.
