There Were Many Things They Simply Didn't

I Think Of Novels As Houses. You Live In Them Over The Course Of A Long Period, Both As A Reader And As A Writer.

After All Who Doesn't Wish To Make A Spectacle Of Their Loneliness

In Nature Forms Are Endlessly Being Destroyed And Then Recreated And Destroyed And Recreated. Nature Isn't Afraid To Destroy Forms In The Process Of Regenerating. So Why Are We Afraid Of That In Life?

But Loneliness, True Loneliness, Is Impossible To Accustom Oneself To, And While I Was Still Young I Thought Of My Situation As Somehow Temporary, And Did Not Stop Hoping And Imagining That I Would Meet Someone And Fall In Love...yes, There Was A Time Before I Closed Myself Off To Others.

I Think In The Whole Field Of Questions About What We Take To Be "real," One Of Those Questions Is About The Self. When You Talk About The Self We're Always Talking About Whether It's A Construction And It's A Construction We're Always In The Process Of Working On. I Don't Think That Work Ever Ends, To Some Degree.