I Just Don't Feel Much Interested In

You Want To Give Him The Book Of His Own Life, The Book That Will Locate Him, Parent Him, Arm Him For The Changes.

Her Cake Is A Failure, But She Is Loved Anyway. She Is Loved, She Thinks, In More Or Less The Way The Gifts Will Be Appreciated: Because They Have Been Given With Good Intentions , Because They Exist, Because They Are Part Of A World In Which One Wants What One Gets.

Language In Fiction Is Made Up Of Equal Parts Meaning And Music. The Sentences Should Have Rhythm And Cadence, They Should Engage And Delight The Inner Ear.

I Was Living My Own Future And My Brother's Lost One As Well. I Represented Him Here Just As He Represented Me There, In Some Unguessable Other Place. His Move From Life To Death Might Resemble My Stepping Into The Kitchen - Into Its Soft Nowhere Quality And Foggy Hum. I Breathed The Dark Air. If I Had At That Moment A Sense Of Calm Kindly Death While My Heart Beat And My Lungs Expanded, He Might Know A Similar Sense Of Life In The Middle Of His Ongoing Death.

Venture Too Far For Love, She Tells Herself, And You Renounce Citizenship In The Country You've Made For Yourself.