It Was Too Much Work

He Believed That Life, True Life, Was Something That Was Stored In Music. True Life Was Kept Safe In The Lines Of Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin While You Went Out In The World And Met The Obligations Required Of You. Certainly He Knew (though Did Not Completely Understand) That Opera Wasn't For Everyone, But For Everyone He Hoped There Was Something. The Records He Cherished, The Rare Opportunities To See A Live Performance, Those Were The Marks By Which He Gauged His Ability To Love.

Hope Is A Horrible Thing, You Know. I Don't Know Who Decided To Package Hope As A Virtue Because It's Not. It's A Plague. Hope Is Like Walking Around With A Fishhook In Your Mouth And Somebody Just Keeps Pulling It And Pulling It.

Guns Are Dangerous And Damaging Even When No One Gets Shot. They Really Do Loom.

If You Want To Write And Can't Figure Out How To Do It, Try This: Pick An Amount Of Time To Sit At Your Desk Every Day. Start With Twenty Minutes, Say, And Work Up As Quickly As Possible To As Much Time As You Can Spare. Do You Really Want To Write? Sit For Two Hours A Day.

Shame Should Be Reserved For The Things We Choose To Do, Not The Circumstances That Life Puts On Us