September 10, 2003

  • I do not know if it is conceit that always turns my thoughs to my own life, or if it my own pathetic effort to explain my life to myself. The years have come and gone in their scores of turnings, and night after night, I still take pen in hand and write. Still I strive to understand who I am. Still, I promise myself, “Next time I will do better” in the all-too-human conceit that I will always be offered a “next time.”
    The Golden Fool by Robin Hobb

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