Wasn't writing a kind of soaring, an achievable form of flight, of fancy, of the imagination?

It's the essence of a degenerating mind periodically, to lose all sense of continuous self, and therefore any regard for what others think of your lack of continuity.

I like to think that it isn't weakness or evasion, but a final act of kindness, a stand against oblivion and despair.

She lay in the dark and knew everything.

I do have a very strong sense that most of the terrible things in life happen suddenly and unpredictably, and certainly can sweep you off in different directions, and that is always of interest to a novelist.

Oblivion seemed the only reasonable option.

I believe the novella is the perfect form of prose fiction. It is the beautiful daughter of a rambling, bloated ill-shaven giant (but a giant who's a genius on his best days).