Literature is the record of human experience.
孔子说:“颜回真贤德!一篮饭,一瓢水,在陋巷,人人都愁闷,他却乐在其中。颜回真贤德!
People ask me how I make music. I tell them I just step into it. It's like stepping into a river and joining the flow. Every moment in the river has its song.
To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.