We writers are shy, nocturnal creatures. Push us into the light and the light blinds us.
— John Banville
Why does the past seem so magical, so fraught, so luminous? At the time it was just, ugh, another boring bloody day. But, to look back on, it's a day full of miracles and light and extraordinary events. Why is this? What process do we apply to the past, to give it this vividness? I don't know.
It's great people still care about books, and it's great you can still fashion a life from literature.
We think we're living in the present, but we're really living in the past.
I've always been fascinated by physics and cosmology. It gets more and more scary the older you get.
