Memory Is Identity....you Are What You Have

When You’re Young You Prefer The Vulgar Months, The Fullness Of The Seasons. As You Grow Older You Learn To Like The In-between Times, The Months That Can’t Make Up Their Minds. Perhaps It’s A Way Of Admitting That Things Can’t Ever Bear The Same Certainty Again.

The Writer's Life [is] Full Of Frailty And Defeat Like Any Other Life. What Counts Is The Work. Yet The Work Can Quite Easily Be Buried, Or Half-buried, By The Life.

This Was Another Of Our Fears: That Life Wouldn't Turn Out To Be Like Literature.

Memories Of Childhood Were The Dreams That Stayed With You After You Woke.

He Always Thought That Touie's Long Illness Would Somehow Prepare Him For Her Death. He Always Imagined That Grief Anf Guilt, If They Followed, Would Be More Clear-edged, More Defined, More Finite. Instead They Seem Like Weather, Like Clouds Constantly Re-forming Into New Shapes, Blown By Nameless, Unidentifiable Winds.