Never Stop Paying Attention To Things. Never

Creative Writing Was Not A Form Of Psychotherapy, In Ways Both Sublime And Ridiculuous, It Clearly Was, Precisely That.

I Don't Only Write About English Literature; I Also Write About Chaos Theory And... Ants. I Can Understand Ants.

You Did Not So Much Mind Being -conventionally- Betrayed, If You Were Not Kept In The Dark, Which Was Humiliating, Or Defined Only As A Wife And Dependent Person, Which Was Annihilating.

A Beautiful Woman, Simone Weil Said, Seeing Herself In The Mirror, Knows "this Is I." An Ugly Woman Knows With Equal Certainty, "this Is Not I." Maud Knew This Neat Division Represented An Over-simplification. The Doll-mask She Saw Had Nothing To Do With Her, Nothing.

He Was Beautiful, That Was Always Affirmed, But His Beauty Was Hard To Fix Or To See, For He Was Always Glimmering, Flickering, Melting, Mixing, He Was The Shape Of A Shapeless Flame, He Was The Eddying Thread Of Needle-shapes In The Shapeless Mass Of The Waterfall. He Was The Invisible Wind That Hurried The Clouds In Billows And Ribbons. You Could See A Bare Tree On The Skyline Bent By The Wind, Holding Up Twisted Branches And Bent Twigs, And Suddenly Its Formless Form Would Resolve Itself Into That Of The Trickster.