One Of The Reasons I Write Is

And What Amazes Me As I Hit The Motorway Is Not The Fact That Everyone Loses Someone, But That Everyone Loves Someone. It Seems Like Such A Massive Waste Of Energy -- And We All Do It, All The People Beetling Along Between The White Lines, Merging, Converging, Overtaking. We Each Love Someone, Even Though They Will Die. And We Keep Loving Them, Even When They Are Not There To Love Any More. And There Is No Logic Or Use To Any Of This, That I Can See.

When I'm Working, I'm Not So Much Disciplined As Obsessive. I Have This Feeling That I Need To Clear Everything Away And Get This Down.

And, In Fact, This Is The Tale That I Would Love To Write: History Is Such A Romantic Place, With Its Jarveys And Urchins And Side-buttoned Boots. If It Would Just Stay Still, I Think, And Settle Down. If It Would Just Stop Sliding Around In My Head.

There Are About As Many Ways To Be Dead As There Are To Be Alive. People Linger In Different Ways, Both Publicly And Privately.

I Do Not Think We Remember Our Family In Any Real Sense. We Live In Them Instead