It's Very Liberating For Me To Realize

You Could Slap His Wrist For Saying It, But Then He Said It With His Face, And You Could Spank Him For Making Faces, But Then He Said It With His Eyes, And There Were Limits To Correction-no Way, In The End, To Penetrate Behind The Blue Irises And Eradicate A Boy's Disgust.

When I Was Younger, The Main Struggle Was To Be A 'good Writer.' Now I More Or Less Take My Writing Abilities For Granted, Although This Doesn't Mean I Always Write Well.

This Wasn't The Person He'd Thought He Was, Or Would Have Chosen To Be If He'd Been Free To Choose, But There Was Something Comforting And Liberating About Being An Actual Definite Someone, Rather Than A Collection Of Contradictory Potential Someones.

For Every Reader Who Dies Today, A Viewer Is Born, And We Seem To Be Witnessing . . . The Final Tipping Balance.

Depression, When It's Clinical, Is Not A Metaphor. It Runs In Families, And It's Known To Respond To Medication And To Counseling. However Truly You Believe There's A Sickness To Existence That Can Never Be Cured, If You're Depressed You Will Sooner Or Later Surrender And Say: I Just Don't Want To Feel Bad Anymore. The Shift From Depressive Realism To Tragic Realism, From Being Immobilized By Darkness To Being Sustained By It, Thus Strangely Seems To Require Believing In The Possibility Of A Cure.