There Are Men Who Would

I Love The Characters Not Knowing Everything And The Reader Knowing More Than Them. There's More Mischief In That And More Room For Seriousness, Too.

I'm Quite Interested In The Absolute Roots Of Narrative, Why We Tell Stories At All: Where The Monsters Come From.

There Is Something Wonderful About A Death, How Everything Shuts Down, And All The Ways You Thought You Were Vital Are Not Even Vaguely Important. Your Husband Can Feed The Kids, He Can Work The New Oven, He Can Find The Sausages In The Fridge, After All. And His Important Meeting Was Not Important, Not In The Slightest.

Try To Be Accurate About Stuff.

We Have Lost The Art Of Public Tenderness, These Small Gestures Of Wiping And Washing; We Have Forgotten How Abjectly The Body Welcomes A Formal Touch.