Richard Ford: One becomes sensitive to what you might call the poetic qualities—rhythms, repetitions, sonorities, syncopations, the aptness of particular word choices—those qualities.
Hisham Bharoocha: Nothing is imagined, no glowing light, no imagined peace, no mantras.
Ford: No question.
Bharoocha: Every boy looks like a hip hop star.
Ford: I set up situations and then see what I can have happen as a consequence, using language.
Bharoocha: The list is vast.
Ford: I surely hope not.
Bharoocha: I’d like to be a weirder presence in this city as long as I can deal with it.
Ford: You can say that was ambition, or you could say it was poor judgment and an inability to discriminate.
Bharoocha: Just kidding, probably making work, hopefully with a small family, enjoying my own reality.
Ford: A rule like that pointlessly straps the imagination, confines one’s curiosity, one’s capacity to empathize. Is it a matter of age?
Ford: I don’t know what that means.
Bharoocha: Some commercial work. All the selfies with art though, not so into that.
Ford: Just a kind sober thought toward the future to penetrate one’s grief.