Women Scheme When They Are Weak, They

(on Grief) And You Do Come Out Of It, That’s True. After A Year, After Five. But You Don’t Come Out Of It Like A Train Coming Out Of A Tunnel, Bursting Through The Downs Into Sunshine And That Swift, Rattling Descent To The Channel; You Come Out Of It As A Gull Comes Out Of An Oil-slick. You Are Tarred And Feathered For Life.

If The Writer Were More Like A Reader, He’d Be A Reader, Not A Writer. It’s As Uncomplicated As That.

Sometimes I Think The Purpose Of Life Is To Reconcile Us To Its Eventual Loss By Wearing Us Down, By Proving, However Long It Takes, That Life Isn't All It's Cracked Up To Be.

When You Are In Your Twenties, Even If You're Confused And Uncertain About Your Aims And Purposes, You Have A Strong Sense Of What Life Itself Is, And Of What You In Life Are, And Might Become. Later.. Later There Is More Uncertainty, More Overlapping, More Backtracking, More False Memories. Back Then, You Can Remember Your Short Life In Its Entirety. Later, The Memory Becomes A Thing Of Shreds And Patches.

The Next Day, When I Was Sober, I Thought Again About The Three Of Us, And About Time's Many Paradoxes. For Instance: That When We Are Young And Sensitive, We Are Also At Our Most Hurtful; Whereas When The Blood Begins To Slow, When We Feel Less Sharply, When We Are More Armoured And Have Learnt How To Bear Hurt, We Tread More Carefully.