I am not by nature the kind of creator who is transgressive in order to be transgressive.

I do not miss childhood, but I miss the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled.

I'm writing. The pages are starting to stack up. My morale is improving the more I feel like a writer.

I wonder if I shall ever see her again, and I realize that I scarcely care. I can feel the sheets beneath me, and the cold air on my chest. I feel fine. I feel absolutely fine. I feel nothing at all.

I wondered how I looked to her, in that place, and knew that even in a place that was nothing but knowledge that was the one thing I could not know. That if I look inward I would see only infinite mirrors staring into myself for eternity.

It's still National Library Week. You should be especially nice to a librarian today, or tomorrow. Sometime this week, anyway. Probably the librarians would like tea. Or chocolates. Or a reliable source of funding.

It has been said that civilization is twenty-four hours and two meals away from barbarism.