It Was All In My Head And

He Believed That Life, True Life, Was Something That Was Stored In Music. True Life Was Kept Safe In The Lines Of Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin While You Went Out In The World And Met The Obligations Required Of You. Certainly He Knew (though Did Not Completely Understand) That Opera Wasn't For Everyone, But For Everyone He Hoped There Was Something. The Records He Cherished, The Rare Opportunities To See A Live Performance, Those Were The Marks By Which He Gauged His Ability To Love.

You Throw A Person In The River And Then Make A Spectacle Of Jumping In To Save Them.

I Made A Startling Discovery. Time Spent Writing = Output Of Work. Amazing.

Updike And Bellow And Roth Were My Three Favorite Writers When I Was Young And Throughout My Life.

Only A Few Of Us Are Going To Be Willing To Break Our Own Hearts By Trading In The Living Beauty Of Imagination For The Stark Disappointment Of Words.