I Don't Have A Very Logical And

What Was Our Life Like? I Almost Don't Remember Now. Though I Remember It, The Space Of Time It Occupied. And I Remember It Fondly.

I'm Trying To Cause People To Be Interested In The Particulars Of Their Lives Because I Think That's One Thing Literature Can Do For Us. It Can Say To Us: Pay Attention. Pay Closer Attention. Pay Stricter Attention To What You Say To Your Son.

I Know You Can Dream Your Way Through An Otherwise Fine Life, And Never Wake Up, Which Is What I Almost Did.

I Don't Have A Very Logical And Orderly Mind.

Construed As Turf, Home Just Seems A Provisional Claim, A Designation You Make Upon A Place, Not One It Makes On You. A Certain Set Of Buildings, A Glimpsed, Smudged Window-view Across A Schoolyard, A Musty Aroma Sniffed Behind A Garage When You Were A Child, All Of Which Come Crowding In Upon Your Latter-day Senses -- Those Are Pungent Things And Vivid, Even Consoling. But To Me They Are Also Inert And Nostalgic And Unlikely To Connect You To The Real, To That Essence Art Can Sometimes Achieve, Which Is Permanence.