I Wanted All Of Her

The Figure Of My Father Looms Large In My Imagination.

I Was About 13, In Some Ways, When I Wrote The First Book. Approximately 18 When I Wrote The Second.

I Admire Your Capacity For Admiring.

She Wondered: How Could People Respond To These Images If Images Didn't Secretly Enjoy The Same Status As Real Things? Not That Images Were So Powerful, But That The World Was So Weak. It Could Be Read, Certainly, In Its Weakness, As On Days When The Sun Baked Fallen Apples In Orchards And The Valley Smelled Like Cider, And Cold Nights When Jordan Had Driven Chadds Ford For Dinner And The Tires Of Her Chevrolet Had Crunched On The Gravel Driveway; But The World Was Fungible Only As Images. Nothing Got Inside The Head Without Becoming Pictures.

And Meanwhile The Sad Truth Was That Not Everyone Could Be Extraordinary, Not Everyone Could Be Extremely Cool; Because Whom Would This Leave To Be Ordinary?