The Writer's Life [is] Full Of Frailty

I Know This Much: That There Is Objective Time, But Also Subjective Time, The Kind You Wear On The Inside Of Your Wrist, Next To Where The Pulse Lies. And This Personal Time, Which Is The True Time, Is Measured In Your Relationship To Memory.

And If You Had No Tongue, No Celebrating Language, You’d Do This: Cross Your Hands At The Wrist With Palms Facing Towards You; Place Your Crossed Wrists Over Your Heart (the Middle Of Your Chest, Anyway); Then Move Your Hands Outwards A Short Distance, And Open Them Towards The Object Of Your Love. It’s Just As Eloquent As Speech.

Global Warming Is More Of A Blessing Than A Curse.

Sometimes I Think The Purpose Of Life Is To Reconcile Us To Its Eventual Loss By Wearing Us Down, By Proving, However Long It Takes, That Life Isn't All It's Cracked Up To Be.

In Britain I'm Sometimes Regarded As A Suspiciously Europeanized Writer, Who Has This Rather Dubious French Influence.