I Am Always Reading Or Thinking About

Literature, Art, Like Civilization Itself, Are Only Accidents.

Critics Sometimes Appear To Be Addressing Themselves To Works Other Than Those I Remember Writing.

Alone, She Took Hot Baths And Sat Exhausted In The Steaming Water, Wondering At Her Perpetual Exhaustion. All That Winter She Noticed The Limp, Languid Weight Of Her Arms, Her Veins Bulging Slightly With The Pressure Of Her Extreme Weariness ... One Day In January She Drew A Razor Blade Lightly Across The Inside Of Her Arm, Near The Elbow, To See What Would Happen.

See, People Come Into Your Life For A Reason. They Might Not Know It Themselves, Why. You Might Not Know It. But There's A Reason. There Has To Be

A Man Will Reveal His True Self, Or So It Seems, On The Tennis Court.