emily’s Reviews > Baby Driver > Status Update
emily
is on page 160 of 342
‘Those open windows were surrealistic doorways to the street that you could walk right through—if you felt like it. But all I felt like doing was to stand there in the cool twilight, gazing out across the East River at the oval spectre of the Pfizer sign—It was my favourite way to end a day—my disintegrating penthouse slum—In the morning—after exchanging addresses—to meet again—I took off for the New Mexican border—'
— 11 hours, 22 min ago
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emily’s Previous Updates
emily
is on page 142 of 342
‘I used to read a lot at one point, after discovering the library on Tenth Street by the park. Not having the faintest idea what to read, somehow I stumbled across a whole series of African adventure books, none of them classics, and most from the point of view of a lion. I really fell in love with these stories. I wanted to be a lion—either that or have a lion accept me even though I was human.’
— Feb 08, 2026 05:25PM
emily
is on page 61 of 342
‘—chameleon quality of his Virgoan—eyes—earthy darkness perhaps—Finally—cornbread—done—we lost ourselves for a spell in the warm—golden stuff—burying—faces—steaming pillows of grain—butter running in rivulets—we collapsed—slouching on wooden chairs in the lamplight—gazing wistfully at—debris of crumbs in—pan as a freight train went by—the 10 o’clock—its plaintive far-spiraling whistle screaming through the night—’
— Jan 17, 2026 03:17AM
emily
is on page 24 of 342
‘—shivering wildly—each spasmodic step—the blossom seemed welded to him. His smile—a touch wider now. He made a detour—going for—shrubbery—the whole quaking organism of him with the gargantuan blossom—an extension of his crazy soul. I watched—amazed. The flower couldn’t have landed in better hands—The Fred Astaire spider, we called him. He was brilliant orange—leaving us doubled over with mirth—back for an encore—’
— Jan 01, 2026 07:20PM
emily
is on page 17 of 342
‘—bourgeois conventions her father was escaping simply don’t exist for her. “We felt no grief or anxiety for a life of comfort we’d lost—since we’d never had one” she writes. By the time she was born—previous generation’s Beat idealism had come and gone. The hangover was bleak. The celebrated fathers were drunk—wives and girlfriends cast aside—embittered. The neglected children were left to sift through the rubble—’
— Dec 31, 2025 01:47AM
emily
is on page 7 of 342
‘—an outsider living by his wits—robust pantheon—Don Quixote; Tom Jones; Huckleberry Finn; Augie March; Hunter S. Thompson’s alter ego, Raoul Duke—Jack Kerouac’s Sal Paradise—there isn’t an equivalent deep bench when it comes to female picaresque heroines. The historical reasons for this are obvious. Until at least the 1960s, women weren’t free to travel around alone—faced social condemnation if they did.’
— Dec 30, 2025 05:13PM
