It Is One Of The

And There Is No Living Creature, Though The Whims Of Eons Had Put Its Eyes On Boggling Stalks And Clamped It In A Carapace, Diminished It To A Pinpoint And Given It A Taste For Mud And Stuck It Down A Well Or Hid It Under A Stone, But That Creature Will Live On If It Can.

I Like A Book To Be Full Of The Memory Of What It Is, A Voice In An Endless Conversation, And Yet At The Same Time To Be New.

It Felt Very Good To Have Him Walking Beside Her. Good Like Rest And Quiet, Like Something You Could Live Without But You Needed Anyway. That You Had To Learn How To Miss, And Then You'd Never Stop Missing It.

Fiction That Does Not Acknowledge This At Least Tacitly Is Not True.

Somebody Who Had Read Lila Asked Me, ‘why Do You Write About The Problem Of Loneliness?’ I Said: ‘it’s Not A Problem. It’s A Condition. It’s A Passion Of A Kind. It’s Not A Problem. I Think That People Make It A Problem By Interpreting It That Way.’