It felt as though the whole globe was dressed in snow. Like it has pulled it on, the way you pull on a sweater. Next to the train line, footprints were sunken to their shins. Trees wore blankets of ice. As you may expect, someone has died.
That's typically what writers do; we just sit around complaining most of the time. And the better things are going, the more they complain.
Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.
He killed himself for wanting to live.
A small but noteworthy note. I've seen so many young men over the years who think they're running at other young men. They are not. They are running at me.
The point is, it didn’t really matter what the book was about. It was what it meant that was important.
