Maybe there's a reader enjoying them, and I always think of this guy. I picture him, reading alone in a dark Saturday afternoon, enjoying the quietnes... of his home. But what's the point? The sequence of stories? I can invent hundreds of them, different plots, different characters, but they all seem the same to me. Rip the pages of a book and throw them into the air, they'll fall onto the floor, all unique, but all just the same for anyone looking at the scene."I'm making both life and writing. I caught up with her in the kitchen."Clare, I am really sorry. I can't take the words back, but believe me, I would if I could."She looked at me though red-rimmed eyes. "How could you say such a thing?"I tried to explain, but my explanation was puerile, utterly puerile. In essence I was blaming her for Ray's over-familiarity with her, blaming her for my own impotence. I looked at the floor, knowing full well that if I were to look at her, I would also break down in tears.But it was to no avail. More

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