Death is unbearable unless you can get beyond the I.
Can I love someone...and still think/fly? Love is flying, sown, floating. Thought is solitary flight, beating wings.
I certainly identify myself as a feminist.
The writer is either a practicing recluse or a delinquent, guilt-ridden one--or both. Usually both.
An important job of the critic is to savage what is mediocre or meretricious.
The possession of a camera can inspire something akin to lust. And like all credible forms of lust, it cannot be satisfied.