The least stupid question a man asks in his lifetime is not: Is there a God and is He a god or a devil? But: Brother, why are you killing me?
Any marriage worth the name is no better than a series of beginnings - many of them abortive.
Perhaps this is in the end what most marriages are - gentleness, memory, and habit.
If the novel is dying, I see no chance that dismembering it will revive it.
If we are to survive on this planet, there must be compromises.
The young are so much more vulnerable than the old - the stuff is still warm and malleable, it takes impressions.