In Life We Sit At The Table

Sometimes, Waking Early Before The Others, Wandering The Rooms Wrapped In A Blanket Or Drinking My Tea In The Empty Kitchen, I Had That Most Rare Of Feelings, The Sense That The World, So Consistently Overwhelming And Incomprehensible, In Fact Has An Order, Oblique As It May Seem, And I A Place Within It.

The Unique Thing That Literature Provides Is To Be Able To Step So Fully Into Another Situation And Condition.

I Think In The Whole Field Of Questions About What We Take To Be "real," One Of Those Questions Is About The Self. When You Talk About The Self We're Always Talking About Whether It's A Construction And It's A Construction We're Always In The Process Of Working On. I Don't Think That Work Ever Ends, To Some Degree.

I'm The Opposite Of Someone Like David Grossman, Who Knows How His Characters Walk, And How They Smell. I Don't Allow Myself To Imagine What Mine Look Like At All. My Sense Of Them Comes From The Inside. They Remain, By Necessity, Physically Vague In My Mind.

Perhaps That Is What It Means To Be A Father - To Teach Your Child To Live Without You.