I Just Write The Books That I

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.

Ordinarily, Of Course, I Thought It Best To Remain Inconspicuous, But The Gesture Had A Certain Irresistable Theatricaility, And An Inevitablility. Sometimes You Can Feel The Pull Of What Other People Want From You, And You Sacrifice Yourself, You Risk Seeming Odd Or Sunsavory, To Keep Them Entertained.

... Nothing Broke My Heart Like The Slow Death Of A Shared Joke That Had Once Seemed Genuinely Funny.

If I'm At Somebody's House And They Have Magazines On The Table And People Are Chatting, I Feel Almost A Physical Urge To Start Reading The Magazines Instead Of Talking To People.

But I Never Thought Of Who He Wasn't, I Never Had To Explain Or Defend Him To Myself, I Didn't Even Care What We Talked About.