Maybe This Was One Of

Fanfiction Is What Literature Might Look Like If It Were Reinvented From Scratch After A Nuclear Apocalypse By A Band Of Brilliant Pop-culture Junkies Trapped In A Sealed Bunker. They Don't Do It For Money. That's Not What It's About. The Writers Write It And Put It Up Online Just For The Satisfaction. They're Fans, But They're Not Silent, Couchbound Consumers Of Media. The Culture Talks To Them, And They Talk Back To The Culture In Its Own Language.

Most People Carry That Pain Around Inside Them Their Whole Lives, Until They Kill The Pain By Other Means, Or Until It Kills Them. But You, My Friends, You Found Another Way: A Way To Use The Pain. To Burn It As Fuel, For Light And Warmth. You Have Learned To Break The World That Has Tried To Break You.

The Paradox Of The English Country House Is That Its State Of Permanent Decline, The Fact That Its Heyday Is Always Behind It, Is Part Of The Seduction, Just As It Is Part Of The Seduction Of Books In General.

By Now He Had Learned Enough To Know That When He Was Getting Annoyed At Somebody Else, It Was Usually Because There Was Something That He Himself Should Be Doing, And He Wasn't Doing It.

I Used To Write In A Local Coffee Shop, But There Was Another Guy, Another Writer, Who Kept Sitting In My Favorite Seat. I Would Show Up, And He Would Be There, And I Would Get Exiled To A Couch Or Something, And It Would Throw Me Off My Game.