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A writer is like those fish that have to keep moving in order to live. Unless you keep forging ahead, your life as a writer will come to an end.
Your heart is like a great river after a long spell of rain, spilling over its banks. All signposts that once stood on the ground are gone, inundated and carried away by that rush of water. And still the rain beats down on the surface of the river. Every time you see a flood like that on the news you tell yourself: That’s it. That’s my heart.
She makes a strong impression on me, making me feel wistful and nostalgic. Wouldn’t it be great if this were my mother? But I think the same thing every time I run across a charming, middle-aged woman.
He stood up and relieved himself in the weeds—a long, honest pee—and then went over to a clump of weeds in a corner of the vacant lot,