The Novelist Has More And More To

Interesting Verbs Are Seldom Very Interesting.

Popularity Has Become Its Own Justification.

Imagine That Human Existence Is Defined By An Ache: The Ache Of Our Not Being, Each Of Us, The Center Of The Universe; Of Our Desires Forever Outnumbering Our Means Of Satisfying Them.

Depression Presents Itself As A Realism Regarding The Rottenness Of The World In General And The Rottenness Of Your Life In Particular. But The Realism Is Merely A Mask For Depression's Actual Essence, Which Is An Overwhelming Estrangement From Humanity. The More Persuaded You Are Of Your Unique Access To The Rottenness, The More Afraid You Become Of Engaging With The World; And The Less You Engage With The World, The More Perfidiously Happy-faced The Rest Of Humanity Seems For Continuing To Engage With It.

How Could I Have Thought That I Needed To Cure Myself In Order To Fit Into The 'real' World? I Didn't Need Curing, And The World Didn't, Either; The Only Thing That Did Need Curing Was My Understanding Of My Place In It. Without That Understanding - Without A Sense Of Belonging To The Real World - It Was Impossible To Thrive In An Imagined One.