Memory, So Complete And Clear Or So

Death Is Not Soft-mouthed, Vague-footed, Nearby. It Is In The Hall.

I Distrust Summaries, Any Kind Of Gliding Through Time, Any Too Great A Claim That One Is In Control Of What One Recounts; I Think Someone Who Claims To Understand But Is Obviously Calk, Someone Who Claims To Write With Emotion Recollected In Tranquility, Is A Fool And A Liar. To Understand Is To Tremble. To Recollect Is To Re-enter And Be Riven. ... I Admire The Authority Of Being On One's Knees In Front Of The Event.

You Really Can’t Write Unless You Read. You Have To Know What The Game Is All About.

It Is Like Visiting One's Funeral, Like Visiting Loss In Its Purest And Most Monumental Form, This Wild Darkness, Which Is Not Only Unknown But Which One Cannot Enter As Oneself.

My Protagonists Are My Mother's Voice And The Mind I Had When I Was Thirteen.