He Wanted To Pay Her; He Thought

...as Long As Nothing Happens Between Them, The Memory Is Cursed With What Hasn't Happened.

What She Said Was Always Strange. It Had Happened Long Ago. It Seemed Insignificant. And Yet It Was Something You Remembered Forever. The Words As Well As The Story. The Voice As Much As The Words.

It Was The Men I Deceived The Most That I Loved The Most.

The Outrage Was On The Scale Of God. My Younger Brother Was Immortal And They Hadn't Noticed. Immortality Had Been Concealed In My Brother's Body While He Was Alive, And We Hadn't Noticed That It Dwelt There. Now My Brother's Body Was Dead, And Immortality With It. ... And The Error, The Outrage, Filled The Whole Universe.

Finding Yourself In A Hole, At The Bottom Of A Hole, In Almost Total Solitude, And Discovering That Only Writing Can Save You. To Be Without The Slightest Subject For A Book, The Slightest Idea For A Book, Is To Find Yourself, Once Again, Before A Book. A Vast Emptiness. A Possible Book. Before Nothing. Before Something Like Living, Naked Writing, Like Something Terrible, Terrible To Overcome.