The Images, The Language, Of Pornography, And

The Deep, Personal Material Of The Latter Half Of Your Life Is Your Children. You Can Write About Your Parents When They're Gone, But Your Children Are Still Going To Be Here, And You're Going To Want Them To Come And Visit You In The Nursing Home.

And Did I Not Think Then, What Nonsense It Is To Suppose One Man So Different From Another When All That Life Really Boils Down To Is Getting A Decent Cup Of Coffee And Room To Stretch Out In?

The Unhappiest Moment I Could Never Tell You. All Our Fights Blend Into Each Other And Are In Fact Re-enactments Of The Same Fight, In Which We Punish Each Other--i With Words, Hugh With Silence--for Being Each Other. We Never Needed Any More Than That.

Luck Took Me Right Out Of Myself - I Read It In One Gulp, And It Never Let Me Down. Sharp And Surprising But Always Responsible, No Tricks For Tricks' Sake; So Satisfying, With Its Shifting And Puzzles. So Much Fiction Turns Out To Be Diversion, In Spite Of Fancy Claims, And Doesn't Really Look At Anything. Well - This Does.

Peoples Lives, In Jubilee As Elsewhere, Were Dull, Simple, Amazing, Unfathomable-deep Caves Paved With Kitchen Linoleum. . . . What I Wanted [to Write Down] Was Every Last Thing, Every Layer Of Speech And Thought, Stroke Of Light On Bark Or Walls, Every Smell, Pothole, Pain, Crack, Delusion, Held Still And Held Together-radiant, Everlasting.