I Can Imagine Few Worse

I Have Always Felt That The Action Most Worth Watching Is Not At The Center Of Things But Where Edges Meet. I Like Shorelines, Weather Fronts, International Borders. There Are Interesting Frictions And Incongruities In These Places, And Often, If You Stand At The Point Of Tangency, You Can See Both Sides Better Than If You Were In The Middle Of Either One.

A Philosophy Professor At My College, Whose Baby Became Enamored Of The Portrait Of David Hume On A Penguin Paperback, Had The Cover Laminated In Plastic So Her Daughter Could Cut Her Teeth On The Great Thinker.

My Brother And I Were Able To Fantasize Far More Extravagantly About Our Parents' Tastes And Desires, Their Aspirations And Their Vices, By Scanning Their Bookcases Than By Snooping In Their Closest. Their Selves Were On Their Shelves.

If You Truly Love A Book, You Should Sleep With It, Write In It, Read Aloud From It, And Fill Its Pages With Muffin Crumbs.

Something Amazing Happens When The Rest Of The World Is Sleeping. I Am Glued To My Chair. I Forget That I Ever Wanted To Do Anything But Write. The Crowded City, The Crowded Apartment, And The Crowded Calendar Suddenly Seem Spacious. Three Or Four Hours Pass In A Moment; I Have No Idea What Time It Is, Because I Never Check The Clock. If I Chose To Listen, I Could Hear The Swish Of Taxis Bound For Downtown Bars Or The Soft Saxophone Riffs That Drift From A Neighbor's Window, But Nothing Gets Through. I Am Suspended In A Sensory Deprivation Tank, And The Very Lack Of Sensation Is Delicious.