A Writer Should Always Feel Like He's

. . . He Felt Himself Entering A Moment So Real He Could Only Run Toward It, Shouting.

We Become The Stories We Tell Ourselves

She Thinks How Much More Space A Being Occupies In Life Than It Does In Death; How Much Illusion Of Size Is Contained In Gestures And Movements, In Breathing. Dead, We Are Revealed In Our True Dimensions, And They Are Surprisingly Modest.

We Throw Our Parties; We Abandon Our Families To Live Alone In Canada; We Struggle To Write Books That Do Not Change The World, Despite Our Gifts And Our Unstinting Efforts, Our Most Extravagant Hopes. We Live Our Lives, Do Whatever We Do, And Then We Sleep--it's As Simple And Ordinary As That. A Few Jump Out Of Windows Or Drown Themselves Or Take Pills; More Die By Accident; And Most Of Us, The Vast Majority, Are Slowly Devoured By Some Disease Or, If We're Very Fortunate, By Time Itself.

I Don't Think Two People Could Have Been Happier Than We Have Been.