Fiction Is Always Really A Labor.

He Believed That Life, True Life, Was Something That Was Stored In Music. True Life Was Kept Safe In The Lines Of Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin While You Went Out In The World And Met The Obligations Required Of You. Certainly He Knew (though Did Not Completely Understand) That Opera Wasn't For Everyone, But For Everyone He Hoped There Was Something. The Records He Cherished, The Rare Opportunities To See A Live Performance, Those Were The Marks By Which He Gauged His Ability To Love.

Society Was Nothing But A Long, Dull Dinner Party Conversation In Which One Was Forced To Speak To One's Partner On Both The Left And The Right.

It Was Too Much Work To Remember Things You Might Not Have Again, And So One By One They Opened Up Their Hands And Let Them Go.

If Anybody Had Shown Me The Paperwork For How My Life Was Going To Look In Five Years, I Would Have Said, "no. That Is Not Where I Want To Go."

For A Man To Know What He Has When He Had It, That Is What Makes Him A Fortunate Man.