I am made, crudely, for success.
A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.