Empty Teacups Gathered Around Her And Dictionary

Only Now That My Son Was Gone Did I Realize How Much I'd Been Living For Him. When I Woke Up In The Morning It Was Because He Existed, And When I Ordered Food It Was Because He Existed, And When I Wrote My Book It Was Because He Existed To Read It.

He Spoke Of Human Solitude, About The Intrinsic Loneliness Of A Sophisticated Mind, One That Is Capable Of Reason And Poetry But Which Grasps At Straws When It Comes To Understanding Another, A Mind Aware Of The Impossibility Of Absolute Understanding. The Difficulty Of Having A Mind That Understands That It Will Always Be Misunderstood.

The Fact That You Got A Little Happier Today Doesn't Change The Fact That You Also Became A Little Sadder. Every Day You Become A Little More Of Both, Which Means That Right Now, At This Exact Moment, You're The Happiest And Saddest You've Ever Been In Your Whole Life.

No, I Don't Harbor Any Mystical Ideas About Writing, Your Honor, It's Work Like Any Other Kind Of Craft; The Power Of Literature, I've Always Thought, Lies In How Willful The Act Of Making It Is.

At The Most Simplistic Level Physicists Tell Us That What We See As Reality Is Not Actually Accurate. A Rock Looks Solid To Us But It's Full Of Empty Space And Atoms Moving And We See It As Solid Because We Need To Because It Helps Us Survive, Right? Survival Being Our Goal. You Can Extrapolate That To Many Other Things.