The End Is Simply The Beginning Of

And So It Happened Again, The Daily Miracle Whereby Interiority Opens Out And Brings To Bloom The Million-petalled Flower Of Being Here, In The World, With Other People. Neither As Hard As She Had Thought It Might Be Nor As Easy As It Appeared.

The Object Of The Passion Is Just An Accessory To The Passion Itself.

Then He Gave Her A Kiss On The Forehead That Felt Like A Baptism And She Wept Like A Baby.

Then You Begin To Give Up The Very Idea Of Belonging. Suddenly This Thing, This Belonging,it Seems Like Some Long, Dirty Lie ... And I Begin To Believe That Birthplaces Are Accidents, That Everything Is An Accident. But If You Believe That, Where Do You Go? What Do You Do? What Does Anything Matter?

Try To Read Your Own Work As A Stranger Would Read It, Or Even Better, As An Enemy Would.