I Don't Really Believe In

Dearest Cecilia, You’d Be Forgiven For Thinking Me Mad, The Way I Acted This Afternoon. The Truth Is I Feel Rather Light Headed And Foolish In Your Presence, Cee, And I Don’t Think I Can Blame The Heat.

I Couldn't Think About Novels At All. It Seemed The Only Writing That Was Appropriate To That Horrendous Event Was Journalism, Reportage. And, In Fact, I Think The Profession Rose Quite Honorably To The Task. Novelists Require A Slower Turnover, I Mean, In Time.

What Reader Wants To Be Told What Attitude To Strike?

He Never Believed In Fate Or Providence, Or The Future Being Made By Someone In The Sky. Instead, At Every Instant, A Trillion Trillion Possible Futures; The Pickiness Of Pure Chance And Physical Laws Seemed Like Freedom From The Scheming Of A Gloomy God.

Dying In Unfamiliar Surroundings Miles Away From Home, It Cannot Possibly Be Good. There Is A Great Sadness About That I Think.