The progress of any writer is marked by those moments when he manages to outwit his own inner police system.

So we found the end of our journey. So we stood, alive in the river of light, Among the creatures of light, creatures of light.

The real mystery is this strange need. Why can't we just hide it and shut up? Why do we have to blab? Why do human beings need to confess?

The progress of any writer is marked by those moments when he manages to outwit his own inner police system.

Applause is the beginning of abuse

He could not stand. It was not That he could not thrive, he was born With everything but the will – That can be deformed, just like a limb. Death was more interesting to him. Life could not get his attention.

The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn't live boldly enough, that they didn't invest enough heart, didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all.