Better To Think Of Writing, Of What

Blasts From The Past Were Like The Rooms One Entered And Re-entered In Dreams: They Would Not Stay Nailed Down. When You Returned To Them, They Had Changed - They Suddenly Had More Space Or A Tilt Or A Door That Had Not Been There Before. New People Were Milling Around, The Floors Undulated, And The Sun Shone Newly, Strangely In The Windows, Or Through The Now Blasted-open Ceiling, Or Else It Shone Not At All, As If Having Fled The Sky.

People Will Do Anything, Anything, For A Really Nice Laugh.

Sometimes I Ask Myself If Writing Novels Is Even Respectable.

Once Love Had Seemed Like Magic. Now It Seemed Like Tricks.

I Want To Pretend There's Such A Thing As Requited Love. As The Endurance Of Love.