All This Beethoven And Rain

She Entered The Story Knowing She Would Emerge From It Feeling She Had Been Immersed In The Lives Of Others, In Plots That Stretched Back Twenty Years, Her Body Full Of Sentences And Moments, As If Awaking From Sleep With A Heaviness Caused By Unremembered Dreams.

In The Desert You Celebrate Nothing But Water.

I Don't See Novels Ending With Any Real Sense Of Closure.

In Sri Lanka A Well-told Lie Is Worth A Thousand Facts.

Meanwhile With The Help Of An Anecdote I Fell In Love. Words Caravaggio. They Have A Power.