A Certain Bohemian, Good-witch Sort Of Charm

There Is A Beauty In The World, Though It's Harsher Than We Expect It To Be.

What A Thrill, What A Shock, To Be Alive On A Morning In June, Prosperous, Almost Scandalously Privileged, With A Simple Errand To Run.

Philip Glass, Like [virginia] Woolf, Is More Interested In That Which Continues Than He Is In That Which Begins, Climaxes, And Ends... Glass And Woolf Have Both Broken Out Of The Traditional Realm Of The Story, Whether Literary Or Musical, In Favor Of Something More Meditative, Less Neatly Delineated, And More True To Life. For Me, Glass [finds] In Three Repeated Notes Something Of [a] Rapture Of Sameness.

I Don't Know If I Can Face This. You Know. The Party And The Ceremony, And Then The Hour After That, And The Hour After That." "you Don't Have To Go To The Party. You Don't Have To Go To The Ceremony. You Don't Have To Do Anything At All." "but There Are Still The Hours, Aren't There? One And Then Another, And You Get Through That One And Then, My God, There's Another. I'm So Sick.

A Writer Should Always Feel Like He's In Over His Head