He Had Never Before Felt

Was Everyone Else Really As Alive As She Was?...if The Answer Was Yes, Then The World, The Social World, Was Unbearably Complicated, With Two Billion Voices, And Everyone's Thoughts Striving In Equal Importance And Everyone's Claim On Life As Intense, And Everyone Thinking They Were Unique, When No One Was.

And She Did Not Miss His Presence So Much As His Voice On The Phone. Even Being Lied To Constantly, Though Hardly Like Love, Was Sustained Attention; He Must Care About Her To Fabricate So Elaborately And Over Such A Long Stretch Of Time. His Deceit Was A Form Of Tribute To The Importance Of Their Marriage.

I Believe The Novella Is The Perfect Form Of Prose Fiction. It Is The Beautiful Daughter Of A Rambling, Bloated Ill-shaven Giant (but A Giant Who's A Genius On His Best Days).

You Enter A State Of Controlled Passivity, You Relax Your Grip And Accept That Even If Your Declared Intention Is To Justify The Ways Of God To Man, You Might End Up Interesting Your Readers Rather More In Satan.

I've Always Thought Cruelty Is A Failure Of Imagination.