Even Among The Angels, There Is The

The Death Of Leopold Gursky Leopold Gursky Started Dying On August 18, 1920. He Died Learning To Walk. He Died Standing At The Blackboard. And Once, Also, Carrying A Heavy Tray. He Died Practicing A New Way To Sign His Name. Opening A Window. Washing His Genitals In The Bath. He Died Alone, Because He Was Too Embarrassed To Phone Anyone. Or He Died Thinking About Alma. Or When He Chose Not To.

Part Of The Work Of Writing A Novel Is To Uncover The Symmetries Or Connections That Make It Whole, Which Might Not Reveal Itself At First.

In Nature Forms Are Endlessly Being Destroyed And Then Recreated And Destroyed And Recreated. Nature Isn't Afraid To Destroy Forms In The Process Of Regenerating. So Why Are We Afraid Of That In Life?

I Am Always Coming Up With Architectural Metaphors When I Think About Writing. But I Think One Of The Things That Draw Us To Literature Is That It Gives Us This Very Attractive Illusion That There Is Meaning In The World - Things Connect.

Even Now, All Possible Feelings Do Not Yet Exist, There Are Still Those That Lie Beyond Our Capacity And Our Imagination. From Time To Time, When A Piece Of Music No One Has Ever Written Or A Painting No One Has Ever Painted, Or Something Else Impossible To Predict, Fathom Or Yet Describe Takes Place, A New Feeling Enters The World. And Then, For The Millionth Time In The History Of Feeling, The Heart Surges And Absorbs The Impact.