You Grew Old First Not In Your

He Always Thought That Touie's Long Illness Would Somehow Prepare Him For Her Death. He Always Imagined That Grief Anf Guilt, If They Followed, Would Be More Clear-edged, More Defined, More Finite. Instead They Seem Like Weather, Like Clouds Constantly Re-forming Into New Shapes, Blown By Nameless, Unidentifiable Winds.

When We Fall In Love, We Hope - Both Egotistically And Altruistically - That We Shall Be Finally, Truly Seen: Judged And Approved. Of Course, Love Does Not Always Bring Approval: Being Seen May Just As Well Lead To A Thumbs-down And A Season In Hell.

Love Is Just A System For Getting Someone To Call You Darling After Sex.

Writers Of Either Gender Ought To Be Able To Do The Opposite Sex-that's One Basic Test Of Competence, After All.

(on Grief) And You Do Come Out Of It, That’s True. After A Year, After Five. But You Don’t Come Out Of It Like A Train Coming Out Of A Tunnel, Bursting Through The Downs Into Sunshine And That Swift, Rattling Descent To The Channel; You Come Out Of It As A Gull Comes Out Of An Oil-slick. You Are Tarred And Feathered For Life.