I'm Concerned About The Unknowability

I Don't Think I Would Have Been A Writer If I Hadn't Been A Mother. I Wanted To Construct Something That Contained Some Of These Feelings That I Had, Some Of These Discoveries Or Revelations.

Bookish People, Who Are Often Maladroit People, Persist In Thinking They Can Master Any Subtlety So Long As It's Been Shaped Into Acceptable Expository Prose.

I'm Concerned About The Unknowability Of Other People.

Open A Book This Minute And Start Reading. Don’t Move Until You’ve Reached Page Fifty. Until You’ve Buried Your Thoughts In Print. Cover Yourself With Words. Wash Yourself Away. Dissolve.

And Yet, Within Her Anxiety, Secured There Like A Gemstone, She Carries The Cool And Curious Power Of Occasionally Being Able To See The World Vividly. Clarity Bursts Upon Her A Spray Of Little Stars. She Understands This, And Thinks Of It As One Of The Tricks Of Consciousness; There Is Something Almost Luxurious About It.. The Narrative Maze Opens And Permits Her To Pass Through. She May Be Crowded Out Of Her Own Life - She Knows This For A Fact And Has Always Know It - But She Possesses, As A Compensatory Gift, The Startling Ability To Draft Alternative Versions.