And There Is A Chance That Everything

I Need Eight Hours To Get Maybe 20 Minutes Of Work Done. I Had One Of Those Yesterday: Seven Hours Of Self-loathing.

Good Artists Exist In What They Make, And Consequently Are Perfectly Uninteresting In What They Are.

Nonfiction Narratives Are Really Powerful And Valid In Themselves. But One Thing That You Don't Get Sometimes From The More Clinical Or Academic Books Or Nonfiction Books Is That You Don't Get To Hear The Person's Voice; You Don't Get Them As Individuals. You Get A Few Quotes And You Hear Them As Sort Of A Case Study: Numbers, Examples, Anecdotes, Maybe A Paragraph Here, And That's About It.

She Needs A New Journal. The One She Has Is Problematic. To Get To The Present, She Needs To Page Through The Past, And When She Does, She Remembers Things, And Her New Journal Entries Become, For The Most Part, Reactions To The Days She Regrets, Wants To Correct, Rewrite.

Maybe He Hadn't Thought The War Through. It Had Seemed Like Simple Fun When He Had First Pictured It, With A Glorious Beginning, A Difficult But Valor-filled Middle, And A Victorious End. He Hadn't Accounted For The Fact That There Might Not Be Much Of A Resolution To The Battle, And He Hadn't Imagined What It Would Feel Like When The War Just Sort Of Ended, Without Anyone Admitting Defeat And Congratulating Him For His Bravery.