Dialogue's A Method Of Revelation, Of Course.

There Is No Complete Life. There Are Only Fragments. We Are Born To Have Nothing, To Have It Pour Through Our Hands. And Yet, This Pouring, This Flood Of Encounters, Struggles, Dreams...

A Writer Writes A Book. People Read It. You Don't Know What They're Reading, Really. You Read A Review And Think, "that Is So Inaccurate. You Can't Have Been Reading My Book With Any Kind Of Attention, Because That Is All Wrong, That's Even The Wrong Name You're Including There." But These Reviewers Have Been Diminished In Importance, The Work Is So Little Respected. If You're Reviewed By A Real Critic, By James Wood Or Louis Menand, Then You Get Something That Is Informed, Interesting, And Highly Articulate. But The Average Review Doesn't Have That Kind Of Depth Anymore.

He Liked To Read With The Silence And The Golden Color Of The Whiskey As His Companions. He Liked Food, People, Talk, But Reading Was An Inexhaustible Pleasure. What The Joys Of Music Were To Others, Words On A Page Were To Him.

Events Need Their Invitation, Dissolutions Their Start.

Lots Of Scripts Are Written And Not Made, Even Scripts That People Want To Make.