Perhaps That Is What It

No, What I Felt Was The Torment Of Waiting, Stuck Between The End Of One Sentence And The Beginning Of The Next Which Might Or Might Not Bring A Hail Storm, Plane Crash, Poetic Justice, Or A Miraculous Reversal.

I Knew That To Find And To Feel Yoav Again Would Be Terribly Painful, Because Of What Had Become Of Him, And Because Of What I Knew He Could Ignite In Me, A Vitality That Was Excruciating Because Like A Flare It Lit Up The Emptiness Inside Me And Exposed What I Always Secretly Knew About Myself: How Much Time I'd Spent Being Only Partly Alive, And How Easily I'd Accepted A Lesser Life.

There Are Moments When A Kind Of Clarity Comes Over You, And Suddenly You Can See Through Walls To Another Dimension That You'd Forgotten Or Chosen To Ignore In Order To Continue Living With The Various Illusions That Make Life, Particularily Life With Other People, Possible.

I Read Differently Now, More Painstakingly, Knowing I Am Probably Revisiting The Books I Love For The Last Time. (245)

I Think Of Novels As Houses. You Live In Them Over The Course Of A Long Period, Both As A Reader And As A Writer.