What Is This Life But The Sound

Life Will Break You. Nobody Can Protect You From That.

What Happens When You Let An Unsatisfactory Present Go On Long Enough? It Becomes Your Entire History.

I Have Always Kept Notebooks And I Go Back To Them Over And Over. They Are My Compost Pile Of Ideas.

We Have These Earthly Bodies. We Don't Know What They Want. Half The Time, We Pretend They Are Under Our Mental Thumb, But That Is The Illusion Of The Healthy And The Protected. Of Sedate Lovers. For The Body Has Emotions It Conceives And Carries Through Without Concern For Anyone Or Anything Else. Love Is One Of Those, I Guess. Going Back To Something Very Old Knit Into The Brain As We Were Growing. Hopeless. Scorching. Ordinary.

I Can't Imagine A Home Without An Overflow Of Books. The Point Of Books Is To Have Way Too Many But To Always Feel You Never Have Enough, Or The Right One At The Right Moment, But Then Sometimes To Find You'd Longed To Fall Asleep Reading The Aspern Papers, And There It Is.