And Silence Of The Lambs Is A

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.

Depression, When It's Clinical, Is Not A Metaphor. It Runs In Families, And It's Known To Respond To Medication And To Counseling. However Truly You Believe There's A Sickness To Existence That Can Never Be Cured, If You're Depressed You Will Sooner Or Later Surrender And Say: I Just Don't Want To Feel Bad Anymore. The Shift From Depressive Realism To Tragic Realism, From Being Immobilized By Darkness To Being Sustained By It, Thus Strangely Seems To Require Believing In The Possibility Of A Cure.

I Hate That Word Dysfunction.

[t]hat I Could Find Company And Consolation And Hope In An Object Pulled Almost At Random From A Bookshelf--felt Akin To An Instance Of Religious Grace.

Certain Kinds Of Things That The Novel Used To Do, Which Was, "oh, I'm Living Out Here In West Nowhere, Nebraska And I'm Curious How The Upper Class In New York City Lives, I Guess I'll Read A Novel About It." We Don't Have To Do That Now. You Just Turn On The Tv. Turn On Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous. You Can Get That Information Anywhere. Novels Don't Have To Do That Anymore.