I'm Concerned About The Unknowability Of Other

Happiness Is The Lucky Pane Of Glass You Carry In Your Head. It Takes All Your Cunning Just To Hang On To It, And Once It's Smashed You Have To Move Into A Different Sort Of Life.

It's The Arrangement Of Events Which Makes The Stories. It's Throwing Away, Compressing, Underlining. Hindsight Can Give Structure To Anything, But You Have To Be Able To See It. Breathing, Waking And Sleeping: Our Lives Are Steamed And Shaped Into Stories. Knowing That Is What Keeps Me From Going Insane, And Though I Don't Like To Admit It, Sometimes It's The Only Thing.

I'm Concerned About The Unknowability Of Other People.

Words Are Our Life. We Are Human Because We Use Language. So I Think We Are Less Human When We Use Less Language.

The Recounting Of A Life Is A Cheat...even Our Own Stories Are Obscenely Distorted.