We Always Worry About The Wrong Things,

Maybe It’s Not, In The End, The Virtues Of Others That So Wrenches Our Hearts As It Is The Sense Of Almost Unbearably Poignant Recognition When We See Them At Their Most Base, In Their Sorrow And Gluttony And Foolishness. You Need The Virtues, Too—some Sort Of Virtues—but We Don’t Care About Emma Bovary Or Anna Karenina Or Raskolnikov Because They’re Good. We Care About Them Because They’re Not Admirable, Because They’re Us, And Because Great Writers Have Forgiven Them For It.

She Could Have Had A Life As Potent And Dangerous As Literature Itself.

A Writer Should Always Feel Like He's In Over His Head

I Am Beginning To Understand The True Difference Between Youth And Age. Young People Have Time To Make Plans And Think Of New Ideas. Older People Need Their Whole Energy To Keep Up With What’s Already Been Set In Motion.

There's Just This For Consolation: An Hour Here Or There When Our Lives Seem, Against All Odds And Expectations, To Burst Open And Give Us Everything We've Ever Imagined.