Keep a light, hopeful heart. But expect the worst.
A mouth of no distinction but well practiced, before I entered my teens, in irony. For what is irony but the repository of hurt? And what is hurt but the repository of hope?
Death is just the last scene of the last act.
If food is poetry, is not poetry also food?
I have forced myself to begin writing when I've been utterly exhausted, when I've felt my soul as thin as a playing card…and somehow the activity of writing changes everything.
Fiction that adds up, that suggests a "logical consistency," or an explanation of some kind, is surely second-rate fiction; for the truth of life is its mystery.
The ideal art, the noblest of art: working with the complexities of life, refusing to simplify, to "overcome" doubt.
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