His Characters Are Ravaged, Beaten. They Walk

Making Love To Aurelia Was Like Rummaging Through A Card Catalog In A Deserted Library, Searching For One Very Obscure, Little-read Entry On Hungarian Poetry.

I Haven't Always Been A Writer And I Suppose I Tiptoed Around The Idea Of Writing Full Time, Because It's So Isolating.

But Most Critically, Sweet, Never Try To Change The Narrative Structure Of Someone Else's Story, Though You Will Certainly Be Tempted To, As You Watch Those Poor Souls In School, In Life, Heading Unwittingly Down Dangerous Tangents, Fatal Digressions From Which They Will Unlikely Be Able To Emerge. Resist The Temptation. Spend Your Energies On Your Story. Reworking It. Making It Better.

I Was Aware Too How Strange Adults Were, How Theirs Lives Were Vaster Than They Wanted Anyone To Realize, That They Actually Stretched On And On Like Deserts, Dry And Desolate, With An Unpredictable, Shifting Sea Of Dunes.

When You Grow Up--and From The Look Of Things, You Have Awhile--but You Learn Things Never Go Back To Normal Simply Because Everyone's Sorry. Sorry Is Ridiculous.