In Life We Sit At The Table

Empty Teacups Gathered Around Her And Dictionary Pages Fell At Her Feet.

When At Last I Came Upon The Right Book, The Feeling Was Violent: It Blew Open A Hole In Me That Made Life More Dangerous Because I Couldn't Control What Came Through It.

I Have A Very Strong Sense Of Architecture In My Novels. But At First It's Sometimes Like Building A Doorknob Before You Have A Door, And A Door Before You Have A Room.

Without Memories To Cloud It, The Mind Perceives With Absolute Clarity. Each Observation Stands Out In Stark Relief. In The Beginning, When There's Not Yet A Smudge, The Slate Still Blank, There Is Only The Present Moment: Each Vital Detail, Shocked Color, The Fall Of Light. Like Film Stills. The Mind Relentlessly Open To The World, Deeply Impressed, Even Hurt By It: Not Yet Gauzed By Memory.

How Was It Possible To Wake Up Every Day And Be Recognizable To Another When So Often One Was Barely Recognizable To Oneself?