The Writer’s Life Is A Life Of

The Problem With Making A Virtual World Of Oneself Is Akin To The Problem With Projecting Ourselves Onto A Cyberworld: There’s No End Of Virtual Spaces In Which To Seek Stimulation, But Their Very Endlessness, The Perpetual Stimulation Without Satisfaction, Becomes Imprisoning.

His Tiredness Hurt So Much It Kept Him Awake.

Popularity Has Become Its Own Justification.

She Wondered: How Could People Respond To These Images If Images Didn't Secretly Enjoy The Same Status As Real Things? Not That Images Were So Powerful, But That The World Was So Weak. It Could Be Read, Certainly, In Its Weakness, As On Days When The Sun Baked Fallen Apples In Orchards And The Valley Smelled Like Cider, And Cold Nights When Jordan Had Driven Chadds Ford For Dinner And The Tires Of Her Chevrolet Had Crunched On The Gravel Driveway; But The World Was Fungible Only As Images. Nothing Got Inside The Head Without Becoming Pictures.

Expecting A Novel To Bear The Weight Of Our Whole Disturbed Society—to Help Solve Our Contemporary Problems—seems To Me A Peculiarly American Delusion. To Write Sentences Of Such Authenticity That Refuge Can Be Taken In Them: Isn't This Enough? Isn't It A Lot?