I Don`t Set The Alarm To Get

January. It Was All Things. And It Was One Thing, Like A Solid Door. Its Cold Sealed The City In A Gray Capsule. January Was Moments, And January Was A Year. January Rained The Moments Down, And Froze Them In Her Memory: [...]every Human Action Seemed To Yield A Magic. January Was A Two-faced Month, Jangling Like Jester's Bells, Crackling Like Snow Crust, Pure As Any Beginning, Grim As An Old Man, Mysteriously Familiar Yet Unknown, Like A Word One Can Almost But Not Quite Define.

What Was It To Love Someone, What Was Love Exactly, And Why Did It End Or Not End? Those Were The Real Questions, And Who Could Answer Them?

One Situation – Maybe One Alone – Could Drive Me To Murder: Family Life, Togetherness.

I Should Love To Do A Novel, About One Abnormal Character Seeing Present-day Life, Very Ordinary Life, Yet Arresting Through It, Abnormality, Until At The End The Reader Sees, And With Little Reluctance, That He Is Not Abnormal At All, And That The Main Character Might As Well Be Himself.

I Have Graham Greene's Telephone Number, But I Wouldn't Dream Of Using It. I Don't Seek Out Writers Because We All Want To Be Alone.