“And so it goes: One of the major American novelists most associated with obsessive research doesn’t really use his research to tell his stories. On street corners, in the back seat of cop cars, he fills notebooks with data. At home, they pile up, unread, not consulted, lonely little orphans of the novel-writing process. The notes, the time on the street — it’s all set decoration, atmosphere absorbed by osmosis, and never as much as you think — maybe a day a week for “Clockers,” less for his other books.”

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