I Obviously Read And Adore Traditional Fiction.

Like Semmering Academy, The Grove School Was A Gothic Pile Of Bricks Run By 1950s-era Chalk Drones, Which Maintained Its Cultural Viability By Perpetuating A Weirdly Seductive Anxiety Throughout Its Community. Mary Herself Was A Victim Of The Seduction; Despite The Trying And Repetitive Emotional Requirements Of Her Job, She Remained Eternally Fascinated By The Wicker-thin Girls And Their Wicker-thin Mothers, All Of Them Favoring Dark Wool Skirts And Macintoshes And Unreadably Far-away Expressions; If She Squinted, They Could Have Emerged Intact From Any Of The Last Seven Decades.

I Spend Far Too Much Time On Ebay Buying Lamps And Upholstery Remnants.

I Used To Have A Really Sharp Memory. And Its Loss Has Proven Destabilizing From An Identity Perspective.

If, At Some Future Point, My Face Collapses Around My Eyes, I'd Probably Do Something About It. My Eyes Are Where I Live, And If People Couldn't See Them, No One Would Know Me.

I Go Through Life Now Reminding Myself To Remember Something, And I Do This While That Something Is Happening. I'll Be Experiencing A Moment And I'll Say To Myself, "remember This!" Otherwise My Whole Life Just Blurs By.