"My father had just been through a divorce. He was thirty-five, going on thirty-six, and he still hadn't made it into the top echelon of Hollywood DP's. After fifteen years in the business, he was working on B pictures — when he had work at all. Westerns, Boston Blackie movies, kid's serials. He had immense talent, Charlie did, but he was a quiet person, someone who never appeared to be very comfortable with himself, and people often mistook that shyness for arrogance. He kept losing out on the good jobs, and after a while it started to get to him, to eat away at his confidence. When his first wife left him, he went to hell for a few months. Drinking too much, feeling sorry for himself, not keeping up with his work. And that's when Hector called — just when he was down in that hole."
Paul Auster. The Book of Illusions (2002). London: faber and faber, p. 211
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