There Are So Many Ways

Wittgenstein Once Wrote That When The Eye Sees Something Beautiful, The Hand Wants To Draw It. I Wish I Could Draw You.

...we Take Comfort In The Symmetries We Find In Life Because They Suggest A Design Where There Is None.

Franz Kafka Is Dead. He Died In A Tree From Which He Wouldn't Come Down. "come Down!" They Cried To Him. "come Down! Come Down!" Silence Filled The Night, And The Night Filled The Silence, While They Waited For Kafka To Speak. "i Can't," He Finally Said, With A Note Of Wistfulness. "why?" They Cried. Stars Spilled Across The Black Sky. "because Then You'll Stop Asking For Me."

I Have A Very Strong Sense Of Architecture In My Novels. But At First It's Sometimes Like Building A Doorknob Before You Have A Door, And A Door Before You Have A Room.

I'm Not Immune To The Readers' Desires. Sometimes They Are My Own, Because I'm A Reader, Too. The Readers' Desire To Know What Really Happened And What Didn't. To Have A Glimpse Into What's Really The Author And What Isn't. I Think We All Have That And I Wonder About What It Means.