The Ruins Proclaim The Building Was Beautiful.

I Responded To The Gravity Of An Invisible Moon At My Core, And I Undertook Journeys I Had Not Expected To Take.

Yes, Manila Had Its Slums; One Saw Them On The Drive From The Airport: Vast Districts Of Men In Dirty White Undershirts Lounging Idly In Front Of Auto-repair Shops - Like A Poorer Version Of The 1950s America Depicted In Such Films As Grease.

We Need A Self Because The Complexity Of The Chemical Processes That Make Up Our Individual Humanities Exceeds The Processing Power Of Our Brains.

When People Talk About The Death Of The Novel, They Are Speaking Of The Need For The Birth Of Something Different.

Novel Writing Is The Slowest Art Form In The World. It Is Not A Sprint. It Is Not Even A Marathon. It Is A Series Of Marathons That Stretch Over And Over Across A Continent.