I Came To New York And In

If You Read A Novel In More Than Two Weeks, You Don't Read The Novel Really.

Literature Takes A Habit Of Mind That Has Disappeared. It Requires Silence, Some Form Of Isolation, And Sustained Concentration In The Presence Of An Enigmatic Thing.

You Take Off Your Clothes And You're In Bed With Somebody, And That Is Indeed Where Whatever You've Concealed, Your Particularity, Whatever It May Be, However Encrypted, Is Going To Be Found Out, And That's What All The Shyness Is All About And What Everybody Fears.

Writing Turns You Into Somebody Who's Always Wrong. The Illusion That You May Get It Right Someday Is The Perversity That Draws You On. What Else Could? As Pathological Phenomena Go, It Doesn't Completely Wreck Your Life.

Never In His Life Had Occasion To Ask Himself, "why Are Things The Way They Are?" Why Should He Bother, When The Way They Were Was Always Perfect? Why Are Things The Way They Are? The Question To Which There Is No Answer, And Up Till Then He Was So Blessed He Didn't Even Know The Question Existed.