I didn't cry. Real things don't make me cry. Only false or sentimental things can do that. In this respect I'm like most civilised humans.
You love life because life's all there is.
Life's generally artless, but it does get these occasional hard-ons for plot. It connects things, nefariously, behind yor back, and before you know it you're in a final act of a lousy movie. A lousy horror-movine, usually...
Nothing is the whole story. The self’s curse – and the writer’s.
We go to the past to lay the blame - since the past can't argue. We go to our past selves to account for our present miseries.
You think horror enters spectacularly. It doesn't. It just prosaically turns up. Even in the first seconds you know you'll find it a room.
The first horror is there's horror. The second is you accommodate it.
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