Holding Hands, For Example, Is A Way

My First Novel, 'man Walks Into A Room,' Is About A Man Who's Lost His Memory And Has To Start A Second Life. On One Level, It's About How We Create A Coherent Sense Of Self.

He Wondered If What He Had Taken For The Richness Of Silence Was Really The Poverty Of Never Being Heard [...]. How Could He Have Forgotten What He Had Always Known: There Is No Match For The Silence Of God.

I Left The Library. Crossing The Street, I Was Hit Head-on By A Brutal Loneliness. I Felt Dark And Hollow. Abandoned, Unnoticed, Forgotten, I Stood On The Sidewalk, A Nothing, A Gatherer Of Dust. People Hurried Past Me. And Everyone Who Walked By Was Happier Than I. I Felt The Old Envy. I Would Have Given Anything To Be One Of Them.

("let's Stand Under A Tree," She Said. "why?" "because It's Nicer." "maybe You Should Sit On A Chair, And I'll Stand Above You, Like They Always Do With Husbands And Wives." "that's Stupid." "why's It Stupid?" "because We're Not Married." "should We Hold Hands?" "we Can't." "but Why?" "because, People Will Know." "know What?" "about Us." "so What If They Know?" "it's Better When It's A Secret." "why?" "so No One Can Take It From Us.")

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.