We Become The Stories We Tell Ourselves

She Is Overtaken By A Sensation Of Unbeing. There Is No Other Word For It.

Perhaps, In The Extravagance Of Youth, We Give Away Our Devotions Easily And All But Arbitrarily, On The Mistaken Assumption That We’ll Always Have More To Give.

I Don't Have Any Regrets, Really, Except That One. I Wanted To Write About You, About Us, Really. Do You Know What I Mean? I Wanted To Write About Everything, The Life We're Having And The Lives We Might Have Had. I Wanted To Write About All The Ways We Might Have Died.

Youth Is The Only Sexy Tragedy. It's James Dean Jumping Into His Porsche Spyder, It's Marilyn Heading Off To Bed.

I Suspect Any Serious Reader Has A First Great Book, Just The Way Anybody Has A First Kiss.