Once we got to eating, the idea of happiness returned to me. Not the feeling, the idea. Would a regular girl be happy simply eating a hot meal with a great deal of chew to it? Maybe happiness is a simple thing. Maybe it's as simple as the salty taste of pork, and the vast deal of chewing in it, and how, when the chew is gone, you can still scrape at the bone with your bottom teeth and suck at the marrow.

As time moves on the line will blur. It will no longer seem to be the simplicity of good versus evil, but good versus fools who think they are good.

The Sophisticate: __he world isn__ black and white. No one does pure good or pure bad. It__ all gray. Therefore, no one is better than anyone else.__he Zetet: __nowing only gray, you conclude that all grays are the same shade. You mock the simplicity of the two-color view, yet you replace it with a one-color view_.

They think I__ simpleminded because I seem to be happy. Why shouldn__ I be happy? I have everything I ever wanted and more. Maybe I am simpleminded. Maybe that__ the key: simple.

Writting turns you into somebody who's always wrong. The illusion that you may get ir right someday is the perversity that draws you on. What else could? As pathological phenomena go, it doesn't completely wreck your life.

The secret to good writing is to use small words for big ideas, not to use big words for small ideas.