I Really Tried, Or So I Thought,

For Both Writer And Reader, The Novel Is A Lonely, Physically Inactive Affair. Only The Imagination Races.

The Idea Of Macbeth As A Conscience-torm Ented Man Is A Platitude As False As Macbeth Himself. Macbeth Has No Conscience. His Main Concern Throughout The Play Is That Most Selfish Of All Concerns: To Get A Good Night's Sleep.

Every Word She Writes Is A Lie, Including "and" And "the."

When You Have Committed An Action That You Cannot Bear To Think About, That Causes You To Writhe In Retrospect, Do Not Seek To Evade The Memory: Make Yourself Relive It, Confront It Repeatedly Over And Over, Till Finally, You Will Discover, Through Sheer Repetition It Loses Its Power To Pain You. It Works, I Guarantee You, This Sure-fire Guilt-eradicator, Like A Homeopathic Medicine - Like In Small Doses Applied To Like. It Works, But I Am Not Sure That It Is A Good Thing.

We All Live In Suspense, From Day To Day, From Hour To Hour; In Other Words, We Are The Hero Of Our Own Story.