I Grew Up In Seattle, But I

It's A Brooding Melancholy That Haunts Me.

Accident Ruled Every Corner Of The Universe Except The Chambers Of The Human Heart.

To Deny That There Was This Dark Side Of Life Would Be Like Pretending That The Cold Of Winter Was Somehow Only A Temporary Illusion, A Way Station On The Way To The Higher "reality" Of Long, Warm, Pleasant Summers. But Summer, It Turned Out, Was No More Real Than The Snow That Melted In Wintertime.

How Could They Say That They Truly Loved Each Other? They Had Simply Grown Up Together, Been Children Together, And The Proximity Of It, The Closeness Of It, Had Produced In Them Love S Illusion. And Yet - On The Other Hand - What Was Love If It Wasn't This Instinct She Felt.

I Was Aware That There Is An Expectation That Writers Inevitably Falter At This Stage, That They Fail To Live Up To The Promise Of Their First Successful Book, That The Next Book Never Pleases The Way The Prior One Did. It Simply Increased My Sense Of Being Challenged.