Most Of The Cruelty In The World

Today, Writing Seems To Me Like An Incredible Luxury, Almost A Perversity, Something Which Hardly Exists In The World Anymore, Where You Get To See The Fruits Of Your Actions In A Daily Way.

English Writing Tends To Fall Into Two Categories - The Big, Baggy Epic Novel Or The Fairly Controlled, Tidy Novel. For A Long Time, I Was A Fan Of The Big, Baggy Novel, But There's Definitely An Advantage To Having A Little Bit More Control.

The Very Reason I Write Is So That I Might Not Sleepwalk Through My Entire Life.

This, After All, Was The Month In Which Families Began Tightening And Closing And Sealing; From Thanksgiving To The New Year, Everybody's World Contracted, Day By Day, Into The Microcosmic Single Festive Household, Each With Its Own Rituals And Obsessions, Rules And Dreams. You Didn't Feel You Could Call People. They Didn't Feel They Could Phone You. How Does One Cry For Help From These Seasonal Prisons?

The End Is Simply The Beginning Of An Even Longer Story.