You Are Perfectly Entitled To Invent Your

The Summer Has Ended. The Garden Withers. The Mornings Become Chill. I Am Thirty, I Am Thirty-four -the Years Turn Dry As Leaves.

There Comes A Time When You Realize That Everything Is A Dream, And Only Those Things Preserved In Writing Have Any Possibility Of Being Real.

We Were Moderate, We Will Never Know What It Is To Spill Out Our Lives.

Life Is Weather. Life Is Meals.

It Seems To Me That Literature Is Giving Way A Little Bit To The Immediacy Of Other Diversions, Other Forms Of Entertainment. What Will It Be In Fifty Years? I Don't Know. Will There Be Printed Books? Probably, But I'm Not Sure. There's Always Going To Be Literature, Though. I Believe That. I Think Literature Has A Way Of Getting Deep Into People And Being Essential. Literature Has Its Own Powers.