The Secret Of Survival Is A Defective

Yes, This Is What I Thought Adulthood Would Be, A Kind Of Long Indian Summer, A State Of Tranquility, Of Calm Incuriousness, With Nothing Left Of The Barely Bearable Raw Immediacy Of Childhood, All The Things Solved That Had Puzzled Me When I Was Small, All Mysteries Settled, All Questions Answered, And The Moments Dripping Away, Unnoticed Almost, Drip By Golden Drip, Toward The Final, Almost Unnoticed, Quietus.

I Don't Own A Kindle, No. I Love Books, They Are Beautiful Objects.

I Dont Know If There Is A Personal Identity. We All Imagine That We Are Absolute Individuals. But When We Begin To Look For Where This Individuality Resides, Its Very Difficult To Find.

Writing Keeps Me At My Desk, Constantly Trying To Write A Perfect Sentence. It Is A Great Privilege To Make One's Living From Writing Sentences. The Sentence Is The Greatest Invention Of Civilization. To Sit All Day Long Assembling These Extraordinary Strings Of Words Is A Marvelous Thing. I Couldn't Ask For Anything Better. It's As Near To Godliness As I Can Get.

All I Wanted Was To Be Left Alone. They Abhor A Vacuum, Other People. You Find A Quiet Corner Where You Can Hunker Down In Peace, And The Next Minute There They Are, Crowding Around You In Their Party Hats, Tooting Their Paper Whistles In Your Face And Insisting You Get Up And Join In The Knees-up.