What Makes Us Want To Know The

Some Of The Freckles I Once Loved Are Now Closer To Liver Spots. But It’s Still The Eyes We Look At, Isn’t It? That’s Where We Found The Other Person, And Find Them Still.

Love May Not Lead Where We Think Or Hope, But Regardless Of Outcome It Should Be A Call To Seriousness And Truth. If It Is Not That - If It Is Not Moral In Its Effect - Then Love Is No More Than An Exaggerated Form Of Pleasure.

Books Say: She Did This Because. Life Says: She Did This. Books Are Where Things Are Explained To You; Life Is Where Things Aren't. I'm Not Surprised Some People Prefer Books.

You Can't Have A Novel Without Real, Believable People, And Once You Get Into Either Too Theoretical A Novel Or Too Philosophical A Novel, You Get Into The Dangers That The French Novel Has Discovered In The Past 50 Or 60 Years. And You Get Into A Sort Of Aridity. No, You Have To Have Real, Identifiable People To Whom The Reader Reacts In A Way As If They Were Real People.

And No, It Wasn't Shame I Now Felt, Or Guilt, But Something Rarer In My Life And Stronger Than Both: Remorse. A Feeling Which Is More Complicated, Curdled, And Primeval. Whose Chief Characteristic Is That Nothing Can Be Done About It: Too Much Time Has Passed, Too Much Damage Has Been Done, For Amends To Be Made.