Time is change; we measure its passage by how much things alter.

Communists are the last optimists.

Disaster is private, in its way, as love is.

If I dreamt this, while walking, walking in the London streets, the subconscious of each and every other life, past and present, brushing me in passing, what makes it real? Writing it down.

In a certain sense a writer is 'selected' by his subject - his subject being the consciousness of his own era.

The function of a writer is to make sense of life. It is such a mystery, it changes all the time, like the light.

My answer is: Recognize yourself in others