I can’t forget things, or ignore them-bad things that happen, I said. I’m a lay-it-all-out person, a dwell-on-it person, an obsess-about-it person. If I hold things in and try to forget or pretend, I become a madman and have panic attacks. I have to talk.
Better than chocolate, being with you last night. Silly me, I thought that nothing was better than chocolate.
Someone once wrote that a novel should deliver a series of small astonishments. I get the same thing spending an hour with you.
They know that tragedy is not glamorous. They know it doesn’t play out in life as it does on a stage or between the pages of a book. It is neither a punishment meted out nor a lesson conferred. Its horrors are not attributable to one single person. Tragedy is ugly and tangled, stupid and confusing.