True Stories, Autobiographical Stories, Like Some Novels,

God Is An Immensity, While This Disease, This Death, Which Is In Me, This Small, Tightly Defined Pedestrian Event, Is Merely And Perfectly Real, Without Miracle—or Instruction.

Nothing I Have Ever Written Has Been Admired As Much As The Announcement Of My Death.

I Have The Sense That If I Push Too Hard Or Too Far Into Memory I’ll Come Apart.

In Our Opposed Forms Of Loneliness And Self-recognition And Recognition Of The Other, We Touched Each Other Often As We Spoke; And On Shore In Explorations Of The Past, We Strolled With Our Arms Linked.

I Distrust Summaries, Any Kind Of Gliding Through Time, Any Too Great A Claim That One Is In Control Of What One Recounts; I Think Someone Who Claims To Understand But Is Obviously Calk, Someone Who Claims To Write With Emotion Recollected In Tranquility, Is A Fool And A Liar. To Understand Is To Tremble. To Recollect Is To Re-enter And Be Riven. ... I Admire The Authority Of Being On One's Knees In Front Of The Event.