When People Leave, They Always Seem To

Twenty-five, He Was. Twenty-five Tomorrow. Some Years The Snow Had Melted For His Birthday, But Not This Year, And So It Had Been A Long Winter Full Of Cows.

In The Traditional Urban Novel, There Is Only Survival Or Not. The Suburban Idea, The Conformist Idea, That Agony Can Be Seen To And Cured By Doctors Or Psychoanalysis Or Self-knowledge Is Nowhere To Be Found In The City. Talking Is A Way Of Life, But It Is Not A Cure. Same With Religion.

The Fact Is That The Same Sequence Of Days Can Arrange Themselves Into A Number Of Different Stories.

You Know What Getting Married Is? It's Agreeing To Taking This Person Who Right Now Is At The Top Of His Form, Full Of Hopes And Ideas, Feeling Good, Looking Good, Wildly Interested In You Because You're The Same Way, And Sticking By Him While He Slowly Disintegrates. And He Does The Same For You. You're His Responsibility Now And He's Yours. If No One Else Will Take Care Of Him, You Will. If Everyone Else Rejects You, He Won't. What Do You Think Love Is? Going To Bed All The Time?

I Love To Write About Sex. You Just Have To Make It Idiosyncratic. You Have To Have A Strong Comprehension Of Your Characters, And Write It From Their Point Of View. It's Really Fun. It's Not Erotic.