Irony - The Modern Mode: Either The

Life … Is A Bit Like Reading. … If All Your Responses To A Book Have Already Been Duplicated And Expanded Upon By A Professional Critic, Then What Point Is There To Your Reading? Only That It’s Yours. Similarly, Why Live Your Life? Because It’s Yours. But What If Such An Answer Becomes Less And Less Convincing?

It Strikes Me That This May Be One Of The Differences Between Youth And Age: When We Are Young, We Invent Different Futures For Ourselves; When We Are Old, We Invent Different Pasts For Others.

We Must Be Precise With Love, Its Language And Its Gestures. If It Is To Save Us, We Must Look At It As Clearly As We Should Learn To Look At Death

In Those Days, We Imagined Ourselves As Being Kept In Some Kind Of Holding Pen, Waiting To Be Released Into Our Lives. And When The Moment Came, Our Lives -- And Time Itself -- Would Speed Up. How Were We To Know That Our Lives Had In Any Case Begun, That Some Advantage Had Already Been Gained, Some Damage Already Inflicted? Also, That Our Release Would Only Be Into A Larger Holding Pen, Whose Boundaries Would Be At First Undiscernible.

Books Say: She Did This Because. Life Says: She Did This. Books Are Where Things Are Explained To You; Life Is Where Things Aren't. I'm Not Surprised Some People Prefer Books.