The Companionship Of Dead Writers Is A

Iconic Paris Tells Us: Here Are Our Three-star Attractions, Go Thou And Marvel. And So We Gaze Obediently At What We Are Told To Gaze At, Without Exactly Asking Why.

Perhaps The World Progresses Not By Maturing, But By Being In A Permanent State Of Adolescence, Of Thrilled Discovery.

Not Merely Hope, But Any Burdensome Yearning: Ambition, Hatred, Love (especially Love) - How Rarely Do Our Emotions Meet The Object They Seem To Deserve? How Hopelessly We Signal; How Dark The Sky; How Big The Waves. We Are All Lost At See, Washed Between Hope And Despair, Hailing Something That May Never Come To Rescue Us. Catastrophe Has Become Art; But This Is No Reducing Process. It Is Freeing, Enlarging, Explaining. Catastrophe Has Become Art: That Is, After All, What It Is For.

There Is A German Word, Sehnsucht, Which Has No English Equivalent; It Means 'the Longing For Something'. It Has Romantic And Mystical Connotations; C.s. Lewis Defined It As The 'inconsolable Longing' In The Human Heart For 'we Know Not What'. It Seems Rather German To Be Able To Specify The Unspecifiable. The Longing For Something - Or, In Our Case, For Someone.

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.