The Idea Of Writer As Sage Is

My Existence From Day To Day Has Become A Matter Of Averting My Eyes, Of Cringing. Death Is The Only Truth Left. Death Is What I Cannot Bear To Think. At Every Moment When I Am Thinking Of Something Else, I Am Not Thinking Death, Am Not Thinking The Truth.

Restoration Is A Skilled Profession. You Might Even Call It An Art In Its Own Right, Except That It Is Frowned On To Be Original. First Rule Of Restoration: Follow The Intention Of The Artist. Never Try To Improve On Him.

There Is Nothing More Humanly Beautiful Than A Woman's Breasts. Nothing More Humanly Beautiful, Nothing More Humanly Mysterious Than Why Men Should Want To Caress, Over And Over Again, With Paintbrush Or Chisel Or Hand, These Oddly Curved Fatty Sacs, And Nothing More Humanly Endearing Than Our Complicity (i Mean The Complicity Of Women) In Their Obsession.

In Its Conception The Literature Prize Belongs To Days When A Writer Could Still Be Thought Of As, By Virtue Of His Or Her Occupation, A Sage, Someone With No Institutional Affiliations Who Could Offer An Authoritative Word On Our Times As Well As On Our Moral Life.

That Was Our First Time Together. Interesting, An Interesting Experience, But Not Earth-shaking. But Then, I Never Expected It To Be Earth-shaking, Not With Him. What I Was Determined To Avoid Was Emotional Entanglement. A Passing Fling Was One Thing, An Affair Of The Heart Quite Another. Of Myself I Was Fairly Sure. I Was Not About To Lose My Heart To A Man About Whom I Knew Next To Nothing.