I Take Almost No Notes When I

All The Times I Have Suddenly Realized That My Parents Are Dead, Even Now, It Still Surprises Me, To Exist In The World While That Which Made Me Has Ceased To Exist

What Is Literature, Really? Boiled Down To A Single Sentence, I'd Say It's This: An Endless Conversation About What It Means To Be Human. And To Read Literature Is To Engage In That Conversation.

Once Upon A Time You Were A Fish. How Do You Know? Because I Was Also A Fish. You, Too? Sure. A Long Time Ago. Anyway, Being A Fish, You Knew How To Swim. You Were A Great Swimmer. A Champion Swimmer, You Were. You Loved The Water. Why? What Do You Mean, Why? Why Did I Love The Water? Because It Was Your Life! And As We Talked, I Would Have Let Him Go One Finger At A Time, Until, Without His Realizing, He'd Be Floating Without Me. Perhaps That Is What It Means To Be A Father-to Teach Your Child To Live Without You.

At Times I Believed That The Last Page Of My Book And The Last Page Of My Life Were One And The Same, That When My Book Ended I'd End, A Great Wind Would Sweep Through My Rooms Carrying The Pages Away, And When The Air Cleared Of All Those Fluttering White Sheets The Room Would Be Silent, The Chair Where I Sat Empty.

...our Eyes Locked In One Of Those Looks That Sometimes Happen Between Strangers, When Both Wordlessly Agree That Reality Contains Sinkholes Whose Depths Neither Can Ever Hope To Fathom.