Maybe good luck was like bad luck in that it took a while to sink in.
…with a grief no less sharp for not being intimate with its object.
Children love secret club houses. They love secrecy even when there’s no need for secrecy.
I think it’s hard to write about children and to have an idea of innocence.
Actually, I enjoy the process of writing a big long novel.
What’s worth living for? what’s worth dying for? what’s completely foolish to pursue?
I suppose the shock of recognition is one of the nastiest shocks of all.