I Think Ethical Ambivalence Is A Kind

When The Clock Stops On A Life, All Things Emanating From It Become Precious, Finite, And Cordoned Off For Preservation. Each Aspect Of The Dead Person Is Removed From The Flux Of The Everyday, Which, Of Course, Is Where We Miss Him Most. The Quarantine Around Death Makes It Feel Unlucky And Wrong--a Freakish Incursion--and The Dead, Thus Quarantined, Come To Seem More Dead Than They Already Are.... Borrowing From The Dead Is A Way Of Keeping Them Engaged In Life's Daily Transactions--in Other Words, Alive.

I Write Fiction Longhand. That's Not So Much About Rejecting Technology As Being Unable To Write Fiction On A Computer For Some Reason. I Don't Think I Would Write It On A Typewriter Either. I Write In A Very Blind Gut Instinctive Way. It Just Doesn't Feel Right. There's A Physical Connection. And Then In Nonfiction That's Not The Case At All. I Can't Even Imagine Writing Nonfiction By Hand.

[i]t May Be That A Crowd At A Particular Moment Of History Creates The Object To Justify Its Gathering.

The Answers Were Maddeningly Absent—it Was Like Trying To Remember A Song That You Knew Made You Feel A Certain Way, Without A Title, Artist, Or Even A Few Bars To Bring It Back.

I Guess It's Always Romantic When Two People Fall In Love.... Even If It Turns Out Not To Be Real.