I forced myself to picture the last moments. The penultimate breath. A final sigh. And yet. It was always followed by another.

At times I believed that the last page of my book and the last page of my life were one and the same, that when my book ended I'd end, a great wind would sweep through my rooms carrying the pages away, and when the air cleared of all those fluttering white sheets the room would be silent, the chair where I sat empty.

I read differently now, more painstakingly, knowing I am probably revisiting the books I love for the last time. (245)

All I want is not to die on a day when I went unseen.

I scowled at the world. And the world scowled back. We were locked in a stare of mutual disgust.

It is impossible to distrust one's writing without awakening a deeper distrust in oneself.

I used to think that if I had a choice between writing well and living well, I would choose the former. But now I think that's sheer lunacy. Writing weighs so much less, in the great cosmic equation, than living.