A Singer Can Shatter Glass

Yes. To Write A Novel Is To Risk My Sanity. The Deeper I Get Into The Suffering And Conflict Of The Characters, Into The Very Situations And Thoughts And Feelings That Make The Novel Worthwhile, The Worse I Feel, And The More Likely I Am To Be Severely Depressed When The Book Is Finished. There Is No Avoiding This: It Is The Result Of Attempting To Tell All You Know, To Reach For The Stars, To Write What Matters.

… In The Relentless And Meaningless Manner One Searches For Something In A Nightmare, Coming On Doors That Won’t Open Or Drawers That Won’t Shut, Struggling Over And Over Against The Same Meaningless Thing, Not Knowing Why The Effort Seems So Desperate, Why The Sudden Sight Of A Chair With A Shawl Thrown Over It Inspires The Mind With Horror.

We All Suffer Under A Curse, The Curse That We Know More Than We Can Endure, And There Is Nothing, Absolutely Nothing We Can Do About The Force And The Lure Of This Knowledge.

Suppose Death Had A Heart To Love And To Release You, To Whom Would He Turn This Passion, Would You Chose A Person From The Crowd There. A Person To Suffer As You Suffer.

This Suffering, This Unspeakable Capacity To Bleed And To Know Pain And To Know Annihilation, Is What Has To Be Overcome In This World If Anyone Is To Reach God.