any compulsion tries to justify itself.
Memory fades, memory adjusts, memory conforms to what we think we remember.
In terms of work, I never felt that I've done it right. I always want to have done it differently, to have done it better, a different way.
He was an outsider who lived by his ability to manipulate the inside.
Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind there would have been no reason to write.
One thing in my defense, not that it matters: I know something Carter never knew, or Helene, or maybe you. I know what "nothing" means, and keep on playing.