The Images, The Language, Of Pornography, And

The Constant Happiness Is Curiosity.

What She Felt Was A Lighthearted Sort Of Compassion, Almost Like Laughter. A Swish Of Tender Hilarity, Getting The Better Of All Her Sores And Hollows, For The Time Given.

A Story ... Has A Sturdy Sense Of Itself Of Being Built Out Of Its Own Necessity, Not Just To Shelter Or Beguile You.

Anecdotes Don't Make Good Stories. Generally I Dig Down Underneath Them So Far That The Story That Finally Comes Out Is Not What People Thought Their Anecdotes Were About.

I Would Have A Flick Of Fear, As In A Dream When You Find Yourself In The Wrong Building Or Have Forgotten The Time For The Exam And Understand That This Is Only The Tip Of Some Shadowy Cataclysm Or Lifelong Mistake.