People Are More Than You Think They

Dead, We Are Revealed In Our True Dimensions, And They Are Surprisingly Modest.

You Have Started The Book With This Bubble Over Your Head That Contains A Cathedral Full Of Fire - That Contains A Novel So Vast And Great And Penetrating And Bright And Dark That It Will Put All Other Novels Ever Written To Shame. And Then, As You Get Towards The End, You Begin To Realise, No, It's Just This Book.

The Kiss Was Innocent--innocent Enough--but It Was Also Full Of Something Not Unlike What Virginia Wants From London, From Life; It Was Full Of A Love Complex And Ravenous, Ancient, Neither This Nor That. It Will Serve As This Afternoon's Manifestation Of The Central Mystery Itself, The Elusive Brightness That Shines From The Edges Of Certain Dreams; The Brightness Which, When We Awaken, Is Already Fading From Our Minds, And Which We Rise In The Hope Of Finding, Perhaps Today, This New Day In Which Anything Might Happen, Anything At All.

Insomniacs Know Better Than Anyone How It Would Be To Haunt A House.

Perhaps, In The Extravagance Of Youth, We Give Away Our Devotions Easily And All But Arbitrarily, On The Mistaken Assumption That We’ll Always Have More To Give.