I Feel Like A Lot Of Life

... It Struck Me As So Hard To Believe I Was Really Getting What I Wanted; It Was Always Easier To Feel The Lack Of Something Than The Thing Itself.

Later On, When I Tried To Imagine How I Might Have Ruined Things, That Would Occur To Me - That I'd So Rarely Resisted, That I Hadn't Made It Hard Enough For Him. Maybe It Was Like Gathering Your Strength And Hurling Your Body Against A Door You Believe To Be Locked, And Then The Door Opens Easily - It Wasn't Locked At All - And You're Standing Looking Into The Room, Trying To Remember What It Was You Thought You Wanted.

She Was The Reason I Was A Reader, And Being A Reader Was What Had Made Me Most Myself; It Had Given Me The Gifts Of Curiosity And Sympathy, An Awareness Of The World As An Odd And Vibrant Contradictory Place, And It Had Me Unafraid Of Its Oddness And Vibrancy And Contradictions.

She Opened Her Mouth But Did Not Immediately Speak, And I Felt, Simultaneously, The Impulse To Coax The Words From Her And The Impulse To Suppress Them. I Always Thought I Wanted To Know A Secret, Or I Wanted An Event To Unfold – I Wanted My Life To Start – But In Those Rare Moments When It Seemed Like Something Might Actually Change, Panic Shot Through Me.

Well, I Think In My First Two Novels, Both The Characters Are Pretty Neurotic, Which I Would Say That I Am.