A Delicate, Inexorable Lattice Of Inferences Began

I’d Spent My Whole Life Waiting To Awake On An Ordinary Morning In The Town That Was Destined To Be My Home, In The Arms Of The Woman I Was Destined To Love, Knowing The People And Doing The Work That Would Make Up The Changing But Essentially Invariable Landscape Of My Particular Destiny.

A Father Is A Man Who Fails Every Day.

I Have A Good Memory For Words, And When I Come Upon A Word I Don't Know, I Remember It, Or Try To - It's Almost Like A Tic.

Literature, Like Magic, Has Always Been About The Handling Of Secrets, About The Pain, The Destruction, And The Marvelous Liberation That Can Result When They Are Revealed. If A Writer Doesn't Give Away Secrets, His Own Or Those Of The People He Loves, If He Doesn't Court Disapproval, Reproach And General Wrath, Whether Of Friends, Family Or Party Apparatchiks... The Result Is Pallid, Inanimate, A Lump Of Earth.

I Said, “i Need To Hear Something That’s Going To Save My Life.” Re: Selecting Songs From A Jukebox.