Love Is Deep, A Mystery - Who

I Don't Have Any Regrets, Really, Except That One. I Wanted To Write About You, About Us, Really. Do You Know What I Mean? I Wanted To Write About Everything, The Life We're Having And The Lives We Might Have Had. I Wanted To Write About All The Ways We Might Have Died.

I Just Don't Feel Much Interested In The Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous.

Remember, How Often The Great Art Of The Past Didn't Look Great At First, How Often It Didn't Look Like Art At All; How Much Easier It Is, Decades Or Centuries Later, To Adore It, Not Only Because It Is, In Fact, Great But Because It's Still Here; Because The Inevitable Little Errors And Infelicities Tend To Recede In An Object That's Survived The War Of 1812, The Eruption Of Krakatoa, The Rise And Fall Of Nazism.

She Is, Above All Else, Tired; She Wants More Than Anything To Return To Her Bed And Her Book. The World, This World, Feels Suddenly Stunned And Stunted, Far From Everything.

A Writer Should Always Feel Like He's In Over His Head