If I listen to some utterly perfect performance of an utterly perfect piece while I’m driving, I might want to close my eyes and die right then and there. But listening to the D major, I can feel the limits of what humans are capable of–that a certain type of perfection can only be realized through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect.
And personally, I find that encouraging.

Once he gets to the fort the colonel turns to John Wayne and says, “I did see a few Indians on the way over here.” And John Wayne, with this really cool look on his face, replies, ‘Don’t worry. If you were able to spot some Indians, that means there weren’t any there.’ I don’t remember the actual lines, but it went something like that. Do you get what he means?

I knew little about short story writing then so it was rough going, but I did find the experience very memorable.

I was in my house, alone in the living room, anxious about you, watching the flashes of lightning. And a flash of lightning lit up this truth for me, right in front of my eye. That night i lost you, I lost something inside me. Or perhaps several things. Something central to my existence, the very support for who I am as a person

But you’re such a nice guy,’ she said, sounding like she’d just stepped fresh out of a bath. ‘At least I think so.

There’s something about those secrets that only the deceased person can rightly understand. Something that can’t be explained, no matter how hard you try. They’re what the dead person has to take with him to his grave. Like a valuable piece of luggage.

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