There Was No One To

There Are Times When The Kindness Of Strangers Only Makes Things Worse Because One Realizes How Badly One Is In Need Of Kindness And That The Only Source Is A Stranger.

I Used To Think That If I Had A Choice Between Writing Well And Living Well, I Would Choose The Former. But Now I Think That's Sheer Lunacy. Writing Weighs So Much Less, In The Great Cosmic Equation, Than Living.

How Was It Possible To Wake Up Every Day And Be Recognizable To Another When So Often One Was Barely Recognizable To Oneself?

When You're Younger, It's All Theoretical. It's All Potential. As You Get Older, It Becomes Actual, And Your Life Gets Filled With Unexpected Complexity; Some Of It Asked For, And Some Of It Not. It Becomes Richer, I Find.

To Walk Into A Modern-day Bookstore Is A Little Bit Like Studying A Single Photograph Out Of The Infinite Number Of Photographs That Cold Be Taken Of The World: It Offers The Reader A Frame.