. . . he felt himself entering a moment so real he could only run toward it, shouting.
Michael CunninghamThere is still that singular perfection, and it's perfect in part because it seemed, at the time, so clearly to promise more.
Michael CunninghamAt the risk, then, of being shunned by some of my gloomier peers, I venture to tell you that writers work like demons, suffer greatly, and are also happy, in unmistakable ways, some of the time. If we had no knowledge of happiness, our novels wouldn't sufficiently resemble real life. Some of us are even made a little bit happy, on occasion, by the writing process itself. I mean, really, if there wasn't some sort of enjoyment to be derived, would any of us keep doing it?
Michael Cunningham