We would have to settle for the elegant goal of becoming ourselves.
Mysteriously and in ways that are totally remote from natural experience, the gray drizzle of horror induced by depression takes on the quality of physical pain.
I get a fine warm feeling when I'm doing well, but that pleasure is pretty much negated by the pain of getting started each day. Let's face it, writing is hell.
And so we came forth, and once again beheld the stars.
A good book should leave you....slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives while reading it.
