If The Novel Is Dying, I See

Sadistic Literature Is Not Only Inhumane. It Is Anti-human.

I Am Never Happier Than When I Am Alone In A Foreign City; It Is As If I Had Become Invisible.

Speaking The Truth, Once You Have Started It, Is Too Exhilarating To Draw Back.

As Often As Not Our Whole Self...engages Itself In The Most Trivial Of Things, The Shape Of A Particular Hill, A Road In The Town In Which We Lived As Children, The Movement Of Wind In Grass. The Things We Shall Take With Us When We Die Will Nearly All Be Small Things.

Language Is Memory And Metaphor.