The Ways In Which Things Are Superficially

With Imagination, You Can Put Something Where Nothing Was.

Construed As Turf, Home Just Seems A Provisional Claim, A Designation You Make Upon A Place, Not One It Makes On You. A Certain Set Of Buildings, A Glimpsed, Smudged Window-view Across A Schoolyard, A Musty Aroma Sniffed Behind A Garage When You Were A Child, All Of Which Come Crowding In Upon Your Latter-day Senses -- Those Are Pungent Things And Vivid, Even Consoling. But To Me They Are Also Inert And Nostalgic And Unlikely To Connect You To The Real, To That Essence Art Can Sometimes Achieve, Which Is Permanence.

Tweet, Tweet, You're Alive, You Ignorant Asshole.

I Think That's The Thing That Memoir Can Do More Than Anything It Does; It Testifies And Bears Witness To The Existence Of People Whose Lives, Pleasures And Virtues Would Never Have Been Testified To Without My Having Done It. That Makes Me Really Glad.

I Had A Tourette's Period. And Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Things Would Get In My Brain That I Couldn't Get Out Of My Brain.