Because You Can Get Free

What Is Literature, Really? Boiled Down To A Single Sentence, I'd Say It's This: An Endless Conversation About What It Means To Be Human. And To Read Literature Is To Engage In That Conversation.

It's Strange What The Heart Can Do When The Mind Is Giving The Directions.

No, What I Felt Was The Torment Of Waiting, Stuck Between The End Of One Sentence And The Beginning Of The Next Which Might Or Might Not Bring A Hail Storm, Plane Crash, Poetic Justice, Or A Miraculous Reversal.

I Think In The Whole Field Of Questions About What We Take To Be "real," One Of Those Questions Is About The Self. When You Talk About The Self We're Always Talking About Whether It's A Construction And It's A Construction We're Always In The Process Of Working On. I Don't Think That Work Ever Ends, To Some Degree.

Except For When I Was Very Little And Thought That Being An "engineer" Meant He Drove A Train. Then I Imagined Him In The Seat Of An Engine Car The Color Of Coal, A String Of Shiny Passenger Cars Trailing Behind. One Day My Father Laughed And Corrected Me. Everything Snapped Into Focus. It's One Of Those Unforgettable Moments That Happen As A Child, When You Discover That All Along The World Has Been Betraying You.