A Writer Should Always Feel

She'd Never Imagined It Like This-when She Thought Of Someone (a Woman Like Herself)losing Her Mind, She'd Imagined Shrieks And Wails, Hallucinations; But At That Moment It Had Seemed Clear That There Was Another Way, Far Quieter; A Way That Was Numb And Hopeless, Flat, So Much So That An Emotion As Strong As Sorrow Would Have Been A Relief.

He Wanted To Tell Her That He Was Inspired And Vigilant And Recklessly Alone, That His Body Contained His Unsteady Heart And Something Else, Something He Felt But Could Not Describe: Porous And Spiky, Shifting With Flecks Of Thought, With Urge And Memory; Salted With Brightness, Flickerings Of White And Green And Pale Gold; Something That Loved Stars Because It Was Made Of The Same Substance.

Yes," She Answers And Does Not Move. She Might, At This Moment, Be Nothing But A Floating Intelligence; Not Even A Brain Inside A Skull, Just A Presence That Perceives, As A Ghoast Might. Yes, She Thinks, This Is Probably How It Must Feel To Be A Ghost. It's A Little Like Reading, Isn't It-that Same Sensation Of Knowing People, Settings, Situations, Without Playing Any Particular Part Beyond That Of The Willing Observer.

The Lives Great Artists Live And The Books They Write Are Two Very Different Things.

One Always Has A Better Book In One's Mind Than One Can Manage To Get Onto Paper.