Because Of Her Singing They All Went

Staying Within The World Of A Novel Gives Us The Ability To Be Quiet And Alone, Two Skills That Are Disappearing Faster Than The Polar Icecaps.

I Don't Want To Stand With Somebody's Praise.

He Believed That Life, True Life, Was Something That Was Stored In Music. True Life Was Kept Safe In The Lines Of Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin While You Went Out In The World And Met The Obligations Required Of You. Certainly He Knew (though Did Not Completely Understand) That Opera Wasn't For Everyone, But For Everyone He Hoped There Was Something. The Records He Cherished, The Rare Opportunities To See A Live Performance, Those Were The Marks By Which He Gauged His Ability To Love.

Do You Want To Do This Thing? Sit Down And Do It. Are You Not Writing? Keep Sitting There. Does It Not Feel Right? Keep Sitting There. Think Of Yourself As A Monk Walking The Path To Enlightenment. Think Of Yourself As A High School Senior Wanting To Be A Neurosurgeon. Is It Possible? Yes. Is There Some Shortcut? Not One I've Found. Writing Is A Miserable, Awful Business. Stay With It. It Is Better Than Anything In The World.

It Was All In My Head And Now All I Had To Do Was Figure Out A Way To Get It Down On Paper.