The Snow Reminded Me Of

[n]othing Is As Surprising As Life. Except For Writing. Except For Writing. Yes, Of Course, Except For Writing, The Only Consolation.

Time Had Not Faded My Memories (as I Had Prayed To God It Might), Nor Had It Healed My Wounds As It Is Said Always To Do. I Began Each Day With The Hope That The Next Day Would Be Better, My Recollections A Little Less Pointed, But I Would Awake To The Same Pain, As If A Black Lamp Were Burning Eternally Inside Me, Radiating Darkness.

I'm A Relatively Disciplined Writer Who Composes The Whole Book Before Beginning To Execute And Write It. Of Course, You Can't Hold - You Cannot Imagine A Whole Novel Before You Write It; There Are Limits To Human Memory And Imagination. Lots Of Things Come To Your Mind As You Write A Book, But Again, I Make A Plan, Chapter, Know The Plot.

In Europe The Rich Are Refined Enough To Act As If They're Not Wealthy. That Is How Civilized People Behave. If You Ask Me, Being Cultured And Civilized Is Not About Everyone Being Free And Equal; It's About Everyone Being Refined Enough To Act As If They Were. Then No One Has To Feel Guilty.

A Letter Doesn't Communicate By Words Alone. A Letter, Just Like A Book, Can Be Read By Smelling It, Touching It And Fondling It. Thereby, Intelligent Folk Will Say, 'go On Then, Read What The Letter Tells You!' Whereas The Dull-witted Will Say, 'go On Then, Read What He's Written!