Life Seemed Even More Of A Guessing

Start With The Notion That Yours Is The Sole Responsibility Unless There's Powerful Evidence To The Contrary

(on Grief) And You Do Come Out Of It, That’s True. After A Year, After Five. But You Don’t Come Out Of It Like A Train Coming Out Of A Tunnel, Bursting Through The Downs Into Sunshine And That Swift, Rattling Descent To The Channel; You Come Out Of It As A Gull Comes Out Of An Oil-slick. You Are Tarred And Feathered For Life.

It Took Me Some Years To Clear My Head Of What Paris Wanted Me To Admire About It, And To Notice What I Preferred Instead. Not Power-ridden Monuments, But Individual Buildings Which Tell A Quieter Story: The Artist's Studio, Or The Belle Epoque House Built By A Forgotten Financier For A Just-remembered Courtesan.

Well, They Each Seem To Do One Thing Well Enough, But Fail To Realize That Literature Depends On Doing Several Things Well At The Same Time.

His Air Of Failure Had Nothing Desperate About It; Rather, It Seemed To Stem From An Unresented Realisation That He Was Not Cut Out For Success, And His Duty Was Therefore To Ensure Only That He Failed In The Correct And Acceptable Fashion.