Where Are The One Billion People Who

In Our Constant Search For Meaning In This Baffling And Temporary Existence, Trapped As We Are Within Our Three Pounds Of Neurons, It Is Sometimes Hard To Tell What Is Real. We Often Invent What Isn't There. Or Ignore What Is. We Try To Impose Order, Both In Our Minds And In Our Conceptions Of External Reality. We Try To Connect. We Try To Find Truth. We Dream And We Hope. And Underneath All Of These Strivings, We Are Haunted By The Suspicion That What We See And Understand Of The World Is Only A Tiny Piece Of The Whole.

I Think What Gets You Through A Small Writing Project, Is Just One Burst Of Inspiration. A Book, Especially A Longer Book, It's A Different Kind Of Force That Pushes You Through It. It's A Vision Of The Whole Thing.

It Is A World Of Impulse. It Is A World Of Sincerity. It Is A World In Which Every Word Spoken Speaks Just To That Moment, Every Glance Given Has Only One Meaning, Each Touch Has No Past Or No Future, Each Kiss Is A Kiss Of Immediacy.

With Infinite Life Comes An Infinite List Of Relatives. Grandparents Never Die, Nor Do Great Grandparents, Great-aunts…and So On, Back Through The Generations, All Alive And Offering Advice. Sons Never Escape From The Shadows Of Their Fathers. Nor Do Daughters Of Their Mothers. No One Ever Comes Into His Own…such Is The Cost Of Immortality. No Person Is Whole. No Person Is Free.

I Think All Tragedies Are Best Told With Some Humor. You Have To Relieve The Darkness To Let The Reader Get Through It. Also, That Life Has Happiness And Sadness Mixed Together. If You Told A Story That Was All Darkness, It Wouldn't Be Real.