Reading Was Like Eating Alone,

If Things Are Going Well I Can Easily Spend Twelve Hours A Day Writing, But Not Writing Writing, Just Thinking And Revising And Taking A Comma Out And Putting It Back In.

Fact-checking Is So Boring Compared To Writing Fiction.

But If I Were Asked To Pick One Constant, One Quality That Seems Dependable, Immutable, Endlessly Available, I'd Say That It Was Intensity. For Nothing In Sicily Seems Withheld, Done Half Way, Restrained Or Suppressed. There's Nothing To Correspond To Say, The Ironic, The Cerebral Remove At Which A Frenchman Might Consider An Idea Or A Question, Or The Scandinavian Distrust Of The Sloppy, Emotive Response.

I Remember, When I Was A Little Kid, I Was Good At Sports, And I Could Jump Off The High Board. And Then Puberty Hit, And Suddenly I Was Looking To Boys For Direction. I Remember That As A Great Loss.

What I Love Is How Pissed Off Jane Eyre Is. She's In A Rage For The Whole Novel And The Payoff Is She Gets To Marry This Blind Guy Who's Toasted His Wife In The Attic." -angela Argo "blue Angel