He Is Ugly And Sad, But He

The Year I Turned Ninety, I Wanted To Give Myself The Gift Of A Night Of Wild Love With An Adolescent Virgin.

I Think That The Idea That I'm Writing For Many More People Than I Ever Imagined Has Created A Certain General Responsibility That Is Literary And Political. There's Even Pride Involved, In Not Wanting To Fall Short Of What I Did Before.

It Was A Meditation On Life, Love, Old Age, Death: Ideas That Had Often Fluttered Around Her Head Like Nocturnal Birds But Dissolved Into A Trickle Of Feathers When She Tried To Catch Hold Of Them.

There's No Greater Misfortune Than Dying Alone.

He Dared To Explore Her Withered Neck W/his Fingertips…her Hips W/their Decaying Bones, Her Thighs With Their Aging Veins.