I Have A B.a. In Spanish, So

Pain Collected Into Deep Pockets And I Was Aware Of This Painbut Somehow I Could Not Seem To Feel It. It Was Like A Body-deafness.

In A Way, I Think We All Want To Look To That Journalistic Voice As A Kind Of Global Omniscience, A Big Eye To Correct For Our Own Limited Purview: "here's A Realistic Accounting Of The World In Which We Live."

I Think That's The Real Horror Story For Me, How Little You Can Ever Really Know About Your Own Motivations. How In The Dark We All Are About The Concerns And The Contents Of Our Minds.

I'm Probably A Lot Closer Than Perhaps The Contents Of My Early Fiction Suggest To A Jaded Denny's Waitress With Smoker's-lung-black Humor Than A Ghost Hunter.

Heaven, Kiwi Thought, Would Be The Reading Room Of A Great Library. But It Would Be Private. Cozy. You Wouldn't Have To Worry About Some Squeaky-shoed Librarian Turning The Lights Off On You Or Gauging Your Literacy By Reading The Names On Your Book Spines, And There Wouldn't Be A Single Other Patron. The Whole Place Would Hum With A Library's Peace, Filtering Softly Over You Like White Bars Of Light.