The errors of the intellect are fatal, still more dangerous than those of the heart.
My circumstances of unrelieved responsibility and permanent distraction necessitated the short story form.
there isn't enough of anything as long as we live. But at intervals a sweetness appears and, given a chance prevails.
And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.
Life and death matters, yes. And the question of how to behave in this world, how to go in the face of everything. Time is short and the water is rising.
If we're lucky, writer and reader alike, we'll finish the last line or two of a short story and then just sit for a minute, quietly. Ideally, we'll ponder what we've just written or read; maybe our hearts or intellects will have been moved off the peg just a little from where they were before. Our body temperature will have gone up, or down, by a degree. Then, breathing evenly and steadily once more, we'll collect ourselves, writers and readers alike, get up, "created of warm blood and nerves" as a Chekhov character puts it, and go on to the next thing: Life. Always life.
That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.
I think we all have a bunch of different people inside of us, and then for a particular role you bring a certain side of that self of yourself forward to sort of play, but it's always really dimensionalised.
Sometimes they'll have performances and invite me to be a featured soloist. I think that is what they call it in that world-"featured soloist. "
I have a rough idea when I walk into a studio though.
Fashion now is just so confusing. It doesn't feel as easy. Fashion seems to be in a much more eclectic place.