Death Is Not Soft-mouthed, Vague-footed, Nearby. It

God Is An Immensity, While This Disease, This Death, Which Is In Me, This Small, Tightly Defined Pedestrian Event, Is Merely And Perfectly Real, Without Miracle—or Instruction.

I Often Thought Men Stank Of Rage; It Is Why I Preferred Women, And Homosexuals.

Almost The First Thing I Did When I Became Ill Was To Buy A Truly Good Television Set.

Often Writing Is Like A Struggle To Get Back To A Kind Of Belated, Quite Impure Virginity.

I Am Sensible Of The Velocity Of The Moments, And Entering That Part Of My Head Alert To The Motion Of The World I Am Aware That Life Was Never Perfect, Never Absolute. This Bestows Contentment, Even A Fearlessness.