But We're Lost In A World Of

If You’re Reading To Find Friends, You’re In Deep Trouble. We Read To Find Life, In All Its Possibilities. The Relevant Question Isn’t ‘is This A Potential Friend For Me?’ But ‘is This Character Alive?'

I've Always Felt That If A Project Seems Easy, Or Even Attainable, Why Pursue It? I'll Always Find The Hardest Path.

The Apartment Was Entirely, Was Only, For Her: A Wall Of Books, Both Read And Unread, All Of Them Dear To Her Not Only In Themselves, Their Tender Spines, But In The Moments Or Periods They Evoked… Her Self, Then, Was Represented In Her Books; Her Times In Her Records; And The Rest Of The Room She Thought Of As A Pure, Blank Slate.

The Professor Husband Of A Friend Of Mine Has Likened Children To The Insane. I Often Think Of It. He Says That Children Live On The Edge Of Madness, That Their Behavior, Apparently Unmotivated, Shares The Same Dream Logic As Crazy People's. I See What He Means, And Because I've Learned To Be Patient With Children, To Tease Out The Logic That's Always Somewhere There, And Irrefutable Once Explained.

I Think There's No Question That There's A Reason Why Small Children Make Great Art And Why Slightly Bigger Children Don't. And It's Because Small Children Don't Worry About What Anybody Else Thinks And Slightly Bigger Children Start To Worry About These Things.