It Had Occurred To Him That If

I Would Say That All Short Stories Have Mystery Naturally Built Into Them.

Writing Short Stories Was Kind Of Like I Was Cheating The Whole Time, In Some Way. I Went Back And Forth Between Writing The Novels And Sort Of Sneaking Out To Work On Stories Occasionally. These Stories Were Written Over The Last 10 Years Or So, As I Was Taking Breaks From The Novels I've Written.

Even When Our Death Is Imminent, We Carry The Image Of Ourselves Moving Forward, Alive, Into The Future.

How Can You Come To Understand Your Life When Even The Beginning Is So Complicated: A Single Cell Imprinted With The Color Of Your Eyes And The Shape Of Your Face The Pattern On Your Palm And The Moods That Will Shadow You Through Your Life. How Can You Be Alive When Every Choice You Make Breaks The World Into A Thousand Filaments Each Careless Step Branching Into Long Tributaries Of Alternate Lives Shuddering Outward And Outward Like Sheet Lightning.

Sometimes He Thinks That If He Could Only Trace The Path Of His Life Carefully Enough, Everything Would Become Clear. The Ways That He Screwed Up Would Make Sense. He Closes His Eyes Tightly. His Life Wasn't Always A Mistake, He Thinks, And He Breathes Uncertainly For Awhile, Trying To Find A Pathway Into Unconsciousness, Into Sleep.