For Me, What I Am Making In

For Me, What I Am Making In The Novel Is A Place To Live. When I First Switched From Poetry To Novels, I Was Asked Why, And The Metaphor I Came Up With Was About Poems As Rooms. You Can Make A Room Perfect, But Then You Have To Shut The Door And Never Go Back, Whereas A Novel Is Like A House - It Can Never Be Perfect, But You Can Make A Life In It.

Loneliness: There Is No Organ That Can Take It All.

Sometimes No Length Of String Is Long Enough To Say The Thing That Needs To Be Said. In Such Cases All The String Can Do, In Whatever Its Form, Is Conduct A Person's Silence.

She Was Gone, And All That Was Left Was The Space You'd Grown Around Her, Like A Tree That Grows Around A Fence. For A Long Time, It Remained Hollow. Years, Maybe. And When At Last It Was Filled Again, You Knew That The New Love You Felt For A Woman Would Have Been Impossible Without Alma. If It Weren't For Her, There Would Never Have Been An Empty Space, Or The Need To Fill It.

The Moment Had Passed, The Door Between The Lives We Could Have Led And The Lives We Led Had Shut In Our Faces.