She Is Not A Writer At All,

..this Indiscriminate Love Feels Entirely Serious To Her, As If Everything In The World Is Part Of A Vast, Inscrutable Intention And Everything In The World Has Its Own Secret Name, A Name That Cannot Be Conveyed In Language But Is Simply The Sight And Feel Of The Thing Itself.

We Throw Our Parties; We Abandon Our Families To Live Alone In Canada; We Struggle To Write Books That Do Not Change The World, Despite Our Gifts And Our Unstinting Efforts, Our Most Extravagant Hopes. We Live Our Lives, Do Whatever We Do, And Then We Sleep--it's As Simple And Ordinary As That. A Few Jump Out Of Windows Or Drown Themselves Or Take Pills; More Die By Accident; And Most Of Us, The Vast Majority, Are Slowly Devoured By Some Disease Or, If We're Very Fortunate, By Time Itself.

Oh, All You Immigrants And Visionaries, What Do You Hope To Find Here, Who Do You Hope To Become?

What Does It Mean To Regret When You Have No Choice? It's What You Can Bear. And There It Is... It Was Death. I Chose Life.

She Thinks How Much More Space A Being Occupies In Life Than It Does In Death; How Much Illusion Of Size Is Contained In Gestures And Movements, In Breathing. Dead, We Are Revealed In Our True Dimensions, And They Are Surprisingly Modest.