Not Everything People Did Could

Arguing With A Dead Man In A Lavatory Is A Claustrophobic Experience.

How Can A Novelist Achieve Atonement When, With Her Absolute Power Of Deciding Outcomes, She Is Also God? There Is No One, No Entity Or Higher Form That She Can Appeal To, Or Be Reconciled With, Or That Can Forgive Her. There Is Nothing Outside Her. In Her Imagination She Has Set The Limits And The Terms. No Atonement For God, Or Novelists, Even If They Are Atheists. It Was Always An Impossible Task, And That Was Precisely The Point. The Attempt Was All.

I Do Have A Very Strong Sense That Most Of The Terrible Things In Life Happen Suddenly And Unpredictably, And Certainly Can Sweep You Off In Different Directions, And That Is Always Of Interest To A Novelist.

What Idiocy, To Racing Into This Story And Its Labyrinths, Sprinting Away From Our Happiness Among The Fresh Spring Grasses By The Oak.

One Could Drown In Irrelevance.