Nothing Got Inside The Head

He Watched A Catbird Hopping Around In An Azalea That Was Readying Itself To Bloom; He Envied The Bird For Knowing Nothing Of What He Knew; He Would Have Swapped Souls With It In A Heartbeat. And Then To Take Wing, To Know The Air's Buoyancy Even For An Hour: The Trad Was A No-brainer, And The Catbird, With Its Lively Indifference To Him, Its Sureness Of Physical Selfhood, Seemed Well Aware Of How Preferable It Was To Be The Bird.

What He'd Never Understood About Men In His Position, In All The Books He'd Read And Movies He'd Seen About Them, Was Clearer To Him Now: You Couldn't Keep Expecting Wholehearted Love Without, At Some Point, Requiting It. There Was No Credit To Be Earned For Simply Being Good.

It'sthe Fate Of Most Ping-pong Tables In Home Basements Eventually To Serve The Ends Of Other, More Desperate Games.

Popularity Has Become Its Own Justification.

Good Novels Are Produced By People Who Voluntarily Isolate Themselves And Go Deep, And Report From The Depths On What They Find.