How Easy It Was To Lie When

Each Book Is, In A Sense, An Argument With Myself, And I Would Write It, Whether It Is Ever Published Or Not.

Life Is A Long Failure Of Understanding ... A Long, Mistaken Shutting Of The Heart.

Dusk Was Falling Quickly. It Was Just After 7 P.m., And The Month Was October.

January. It Was All Things. And It Was One Thing, Like A Solid Door. Its Cold Sealed The City In A Gray Capsule. January Was Moments, And January Was A Year. January Rained The Moments Down, And Froze Them In Her Memory: [...]every Human Action Seemed To Yield A Magic. January Was A Two-faced Month, Jangling Like Jester's Bells, Crackling Like Snow Crust, Pure As Any Beginning, Grim As An Old Man, Mysteriously Familiar Yet Unknown, Like A Word One Can Almost But Not Quite Define.

Perhaps It Was Freedom Itself That Choked Her.