I Seem To Produce A Novel Approximately

A Stray Fact: Insects Are Not Drawn To Candle Flames, They Are Drawn To The Light On The Far Side Of The Flame, They Go Into The Flame And Sizzle To Nothingness Because They're So Eager To Get To The Light On The Other Side.

We Throw Our Parties; We Abandon Our Families To Live Alone In Canada; We Struggle To Write Books That Do Not Change The World, Despite Our Gifts And Our Unstinting Efforts, Our Most Extravagant Hopes. We Live Our Lives, Do Whatever We Do, And Then We Sleep--it's As Simple And Ordinary As That. A Few Jump Out Of Windows Or Drown Themselves Or Take Pills; More Die By Accident; And Most Of Us, The Vast Majority, Are Slowly Devoured By Some Disease Or, If We're Very Fortunate, By Time Itself.

If You've Really Loved A Book, Or A Movie For That Matter, Really Loved It, What You Want Is That Same Book Again, But As If You've Never Read It. And When You Get Something Unfamiliar, You Feel Betrayed.

I Don't Think Two People Could Have Been Happier Than We Have Been.

A Certain Bohemian, Good-witch Sort Of Charm