It's easy, after all, not to be a writer. Most people aren't writers, and very little harm comes to them.

Do we tend to recall the most important parts of a novel or those that speak most directly to us, the truest lines or the flashiest ones?

Early in life, the world divides crudely into those who have had sex and those who haven't. Later, into those who have known love, and those who haven't. Later still - at least, if we are lucky (or, on the other hand, unlucky) - it divides into those who have endured grief, and those who haven't. These divisions are absolute; they are tropics we cross.

It's easy, after all, not to be a writer. Most people aren't writers, and very little harm comes to them.

Perhaps love is essential because it's unnecessary.

Later on in life, you expect a bit of rest, don't you? You think you deserve it. I did, anyway. But then you begin to understand that the reward of merit is not life's business.

The land of embarrassment and breakfast.