The Silence Is Perfect, And Yet A

The Larger Loneliness Of Our Lives Evolves From Our Unwillingness To Spend Ourselves, Stir Ourselves. We Are Always Damping Down Our Inner Weather, Permitting Ourselves The Comforts Of Postponement, Of Rehearsals

The Scolding Voice Is Her Own, So Abrasive And Quick, Yet So Powerless To Move Her.

It's The Arrangement Of Events Which Makes The Stories. It's Throwing Away, Compressing, Underlining. Hindsight Can Give Structure To Anything, But You Have To Be Able To See It. Breathing, Waking And Sleeping: Our Lives Are Steamed And Shaped Into Stories. Knowing That Is What Keeps Me From Going Insane, And Though I Don't Like To Admit It, Sometimes It's The Only Thing.

Bookish People, Who Are Often Maladroit People, Persist In Thinking They Can Master Any Subtlety So Long As It's Been Shaped Into Acceptable Expository Prose.

Write The Book You Want To Read, The One You Cannot Find.