Well, It's So Hard For Books To

It Would Be Inappropiate, Undignified, At 38, To Conduct Friendships Or Love Affairs With The Ardour Or Intensity Of A 22 Year Old. Falling In Love Like That? Writing Poetry? Crying At Pop Songs? Dragging People Into Photobooths? Taking A Whole Day To Make A Compilation Tape? Asking People If They Wanted To Share Your Bed, Just For Company? If You Quoted Bob Dylan Or Ts Eliot Or, God Forbid, Brecht At Someone These Days They Would Smile Politely And Step Quietly Backwards, And Who Would Blame Them? Ridiculous, At 38, To Expect A Song Or Book Or Film To Change Your Life.

I Suppose The Important Thing Is To Make Some Sort Of Difference,’ She Siad. ‘you Know, Actually Change Something.’ ‘what, Like “change The World”, You Mean?’ ‘not The Whole Entire World. Just The Little Bit Around You.

And Then She Frowned, And Shook Her Head, Then Put Her Arms Around Him Once More, Pressing Her Face Into His Shoulder, Making A Noise That Sounded Almost Like Rage. 'what's Up?' He Asked. 'nothing. Oh, Nothing. Just...' She Looked Up At Him. 'i Thought I'd Finally Got Rid Of You.' 'i Don't Think You Can.' He Said

She Had Reached A Turning Point. She No Longer Believed That A Situation Could Be Made Better By Writing A Poem About It.

It's Hard To Overestimate The Teenage Appetite For High Drama.