The Better You Know Someone, The Less

I Certainly Believe We All Suffer Damage, One Way Or Another. How Could We Not,except In A World Of Perfect Parents, Siblings, Neighbours, Companions? And Then There Is The Question On Which So Much Depends, Of How We React To The Damage: Whether We Admit It Or Repress It,and How This Affects Our Dealings With Others.some Admit The Damage, And Try To Mitigate It;some Spend Their Lives Trying To Help Others Who Are Damaged; And There Are Those Whose Main Concern Is To Avoid Further Damage To Themselves, At Whatever Cost. And Those Are The Ones Who Are Ruthless, And The Ones To Be Careful Of.

You Can't Have A Novel Without Real, Believable People, And Once You Get Into Either Too Theoretical A Novel Or Too Philosophical A Novel, You Get Into The Dangers That The French Novel Has Discovered In The Past 50 Or 60 Years. And You Get Into A Sort Of Aridity. No, You Have To Have Real, Identifiable People To Whom The Reader Reacts In A Way As If They Were Real People.

Later On In Life, You Expect A Bit Of Rest, Don't You? You Think You Deserve It. I Did, Anyway. But Then You Begin To Understand That The Reward Of Merit Is Not Life's Business.

Because Love Is The Meeting Point Of Truth And Magic. Truth, As In Photography; Magic, As In Ballooning.

Life Seemed Even More Of A Guessing Game Than Usual.