There seemed nothing to do but live.
In order to be cruel we have to close our hearts to the suffering of the other.
I tend to resist invitations to interpret my own fiction.
I am not the we of anyone
But he cannot see a connection between the end of yearning and the end of poetry. Is that what growing up amounts to: growing out of yearning, of passion, of all intensities of the soul?
That has always seemed to me one of the stranger aspects of literary fame: you prove your competence as a writer and an inventor of stories, and then people clamour for you to make speeches and tell them what you think about the world.